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FROM  SHAKESPEARE  f  I 

IHARLb.s  and  MARY  LAMB 


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Digitized  by  the  Internet  Archive 

in  2012  with  funding  from 

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TALES    FROM    SHAKESPEARE 


Books  Illustrated  By 
LOUIS  RHEAD 

KIDNAPPED 

LAMB'S  TALES  FROM  SHAKESPEARE 
GRIMM'S  FAIRY  TALES 
ARABIAN  NIGHTS 
GULLIVER'S  TRAVELS 
HANS  ANDERSEN'S  FAIRY  TALES 
ROBIN  HOOD 
ROBINSON  CRUSOE 
SWISS  FAMILY  ROBINSON 
TREASURE  ISLAND 
TOM  BROWN'S  SCHOOL  DAYS 
MULOCK'S  FAIRY  BOOK 
KING  ARTHUR  AND  HIS  KNIGHTS 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK 
[Established  1817] 


Tales  from  Shakespeare 

Copyright,  1918,  by  Harper  &  Brothers 
Printed  in  the  United  States  of  America 


J 


JUV&Uul 


.'OLU 


Artist's  Preface xi 

Author's  Preface xiii 

The  Tempest I 

A  Midsummer  Night's  Dream 19 

Winter's  Tale 35 

Much  Ado  About  Nothing     . 50 

As  You  Like  It 67 

Two  Gentlemen  of  Verona 88 

Merchant  of  Venice 105 

Cymbeline 123 

King  Lear 140 

Macbeth 160 

All's  Well  That  Ends  Well 176 

Taming  of  the  Shrew 192 

Comedy  of  Errors 207  r 

-  Measure  for  Measure       226 

Twelfth  Night;   or,  What  You  Will 246 

Timon  of  Athens 264  l 

Romeo  and  Juliet 281 1* 

Hamlet,  Prince  of  Denmark 304 

Othello 326 

Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre 345 


00 


Prospero,  Miranda,  and  Caliban Fac»»g  £ 

Ariel:  "Full  Fathom  Five  Thy  Father  Lies" " 

"On  the  Bat's  Back  I  Do  Fly" " 

Puck " 

Implored  Him  to  Have  Mercy  on  His  Innocent  Wife  and 

Child     .    .    . " 

"But  Are   You   Sure   that   Benedick  Loves    Beatrice   So 

Entirely?" " 

"I  Pray  You,  Bear  with  Me;  I  Can  Go  No  Further"    ...  " 

She  Beheld  Her  Lover  Serenading  the  Lady  Silvia  with 

Music " 

"Tarry  a  Little,  Jew,"   Said   Portia.    "This   Bond  Here 

Gives  You  No  Drop  of  Blood" " 

Imogen:   "Good  Masters,  Do  Not  Harm  Me" " 

"Howl,  Howl,  Howl,  Howl!    O,  You  Are  Men  of  Stones"  " 

"Macbeth,  Beware  of  Macduff,  the  Thane  of  Fife!"  .    .  " 

"I  Dare  Not  Say,  My  Lord,  I  Take  You" " 

Petruchio  Entertains  His  Wife  at  Dinner " 

The  Ship  Split  on  a  Mighty  Rock " 

"Plead  You  to  Me,  Fair  Dame?" " 

"Hear  Me,  Isabel!"  Said  the  Agonized  Claudio     .    .    .    .  " 
"Perchance  He  Js  Not  Drown'd;   What  Think  You,  Cap- 

TAIN  I  m        »        •        •        •        »        •     .  •        •        •        *        »        •        *        *        •        •        ••-  >os»     - 


2 

6 
16 

20 
36 

54 

72 

96 

114 
130 
156 
168 
180 
196 
208 
214 
234 

246 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

Timon  Bestowed  upon  Their  Captain  the  Gold  to  Pay  His 

Soldiers Facing  p.  274 

"Romeo  Shall  Thank  Thee,  Daughter,  for  Us  Both"  ...       "  288 

"I  Must  Begone  and  Live,  or  Stay  and  Die" "  294 

"Still  Am  I  Called.    Unhand  Me,  Gentlemen!    By  Heaven, 

I'll  Make  a  Ghost  of  Him  that  Lets  Me!" "  306 

"Whose  Skull  Is  This?" "  318 

Desdemona   Loved  to  Hear   Him  Tell   the  Story  of  His 

Adventures  .    .    .    , "  326 

"She  Loved  Thee,  Cruel  Moor" "  340 

So  They  Cast  the  Queen  Overboard  .    .    .    .    .    ...    .  '   "  350 

"Are  You  Resolved  to  Obey  Me?"     .    ..„•...."  356 


ARTIST'S    PREFACE 


INCE  Lamb  wrote  these  tales  from  the 

plays    of    Shakespeare,  as    he    says — 

"especially  for  the  young  mind" — many 

efforts  have  been  made  by  others,  only 

to  invariably  produce  a  result  inferior  in 

every  way,  and  so,  quickly  vanish  from 

the  reading  world  while  these  tales  have 

grown  in  favor  and  esteem  by  thoughtful 

American  parents. 

I  know  a  dear  lady  who  has  for  many  years  made  it  almost  a 

duty  at  the  holiday  season  to  procure  one  or  more  copies  of 

"Lamb's  Tales"  for  presentation  to  some  young  reader  among  her 

numerous  relatives  and  friends. 

After  reading  the  tales  the  reason  of  its  excellence  is  fully 
apparent.  Charles  Lamb  was  a  diligent  student  of  Shakespeare 
— appreciative  of,  and  well  fitted  to  write  good  English.  We 
feel  the  truth  of  it  when  he  says  he  took  "particular  pains  to 
both  amuse  and  instruct  the  youthful  mind."  He  wisely  re- 
frained from  giving  extracts  of  the  well-known  orations  and 
speeches,  such  as  spoken  by  Wolsey  or  Antony.  He  tells  the 
tales  with  surprising  directness  and  simplicity — as  far  as  possible 
in  Shakespeare's  own  words.  Often  he  leaves  out  well-known 
characters  who  do  not  assist  in  developing  the  story,  yet,  there 
are  several,  like  Touchstone,  Jaques,  etc.,  in  "As  You  Like  It," 
so  revered  generation  after  generation,  that  the  illustrator  has 
ventured  to  picture  them  although  they  were  not  described  in 
the  text.  • 

Lamb's  greatest  accomplishment  in  this  volume  is  to  give  the 
average  reader  of  any  age  a  plain,  simple  description  of  the  story 

JxiJ 


PREFACE 

and  plot  which,  after  reading  the  plays,  even  the  adult  often  does 
not  get  or  rightly  understand.  We  are  carried  away  by  the 
splendor  of  words  and  thought.  That  is  the  reason  why,  it 
seems  to  me,  these  tales  can  be  read  with  great  advantage  by 
those  adults  or  parents  who  take  for  granted  this  volume  is 
especially  for  younger  readers.  The  plays  are  far  more  edifying 
after  these  tales  have  been  read,  because  the  magnificence  of 
Shakespeare  can  be  enjoyed  to  the  fullest  extent. 

It  is  remarkable  that  the  scenes  of  nearly  all  Shakespeare's 
plays  are  laid  outside  his  native  land,  mostly  in  Italy  and  Greece; 
at  the  grandest  period  of  the  world's  history,  disclosing  with 
remarkable  fidelity  intimate  details  in  the  lives  of  famous  men 
and  women  that  would  be  unknown  to  the  average  reader  out- 
side of  classic  literature. 

Louis  Rhead. 


HE  following  Tales  are  meant  to  be  sub- 
mitted to  the  young  reader  as  an  intro- 
%i  duction  to  the  study  of  Shakespeare,  for 
which  purpose  his  words  are  used  when- 
ever it  seemed  possible  to  bring  them 
in;  and  in  whatever  has  been  added  to 
give  them  the  regular  form  of  a  con- 
nected story,  diligent  care  has  been 
taken  to  select  such  words  as  might 
least  interrupt  the  effect  of  the  beautiful  English  tongue  in 
which  he  wrote:  therefore,  words  introduced  into  our  language 
since  his  time  have  been  as  far  as  possible  avoided. 

In  those  Tales  which  have  been  taken  from  the  Tragedies,  the 
young  readers  will  perceive,  when  they  come  to  see  the  source 
from  which  these  stories  are  derived,  that  Shakespeare's  own 
words,  with  little  alteration,  recur  very  frequently  in  the  nar- 
rative as  well  as  in  the  dialogue;  but  in  those  made  from  the 
Comedies  the  writers  found  themselves  scarcely  ever  able  to 
turn  his  words  into  the  narrative  form:  therefore  it  is  feared 
that,  in  them,  dialogue  has  been  made  use  of  too  frequently  for 
young  people  not  accustomed  to  the  dramatic  form  of  writing. 
But  this  fault,  if  it  be  a  fault,  has  been  caused  by  an  earnest  wish 
to  give  as  much  of  Shakespeare's  own  words  as  possible:    and 

if  the  "He  said"  and  "She  said,"  the  question  and  the  reply, 

[  xiii  ] 


PREFACE 

should  sometimes  seem  tedious  to  their  young  ears,  they  must 
pardon  it,  because  it  was  the  only  way  in  which  could  be  given 
to  them  a  few  hints  and  little  foretastes  of  the  great  pleasure 
which  awaits  them  in  their  elder  years,  when  they  come  to  the 
rich  .treasures  from  which  these  small  and  valueless  coins  are 
extracted;  pretending  to  no  other  merit  than  as  faint  and  im- 
perfect stamps  of  Shakespeare's  matchless  image.  Faint  and 
imperfect  images  they  must  be  called,  because  the  beauty  of  his 
language  is  too  frequently  destroyed  by  the  necessity  of  changing 
many  of  his  excellent  words  into  words  far  less  expressive  of  his 
true  sense,  to  make  it  read  something  like  prose;  and  even  in 
some  few  places,  where  his  blank  verse  is  given  unaltered,  as 
hoping  from  its  simple  plainness  to  cheat  the  young  readers  into 
the  belief  that  they  are  reading  prose,  yet  still  his  language  being 
transplanted  from  its  own  natural  soil  and  wild  poetic  garden, 
it  must  want  much  of  its  native  beauty. 

It  has  been  wished  to  make  these  Tales  easy  reading  for  very 
young  children.  To  the  utmost  of  their  ability  the  writers 
have  constantly  kept  this  in  mind;  but  the  subjects  of  most  of 
them  made  this  a  very  difficult  task.  It  was  no  easy  matter  to 
give  the  histories  of  men  and  women  in  terms  familiar  to  the 
apprehension  of  a  very  young  mind.  For  young  ladies,  too,  it 
has  been  the  intention  chiefly  to  write;  because  boys  being  gen- 
erally permitted  the  use  of  their  fathers'  libraries  at  a  much 
earlier  age  than  girls  are,  they  frequently  have  the  best  scenes 
of  Shakespeare  by  heart,  before  their  sisters  are  permitted  to 
look  into  this  manly  book;  and,  therefore,  instead  of  recommend- 
ing these  Tales  to  the  perusal  of  young  gentlemen  who  can  read 
them  so  much  better  in  the  originals,  their  kind  assistance  is 
rather  requested  in  explaining  to  their  sisters  such  parts  as  are 
hardest  for  them  to  understand:  and  when  they  have  helped 
them  to  get  over  the  difficulties,  then  perhaps  they  will  read  to 
them  (carefully  selecting  what  is  proper  for  a  young  sister's  ear) 
some  passage  which  has  pleased  them  in  one  of  these  stories, 
in  the  very  words  of  the  scene  from  which  it  is  taken;   and  it  is 

xiv 


PREFACE 

hoped  they  will  find  that  the  beautiful  extracts,  the  select  pas- 
sages, they  may  choose  to  give  their  sisters  in  this  way  will 
be  much  better  relished  and  understood  from  their  having  some 
notion  of  the  general  story  from  one  of  these  imperfect  abridg- 
ments;— which  if  they  be  fortunately  so  done  as  to  prove  delight- 
ful to  any  of  the  young  readers,  it  is  hoped  that  no  worse  effect 
will  result  than  to  make  them  wish  themselves  a  little  older, 
that  they  may  be  allowed  to  read  the  Plays  at  full  length  (such 
a  wish  will  be  neither  peevish  nor  irrational).  When  time  and 
leave  of  judicious  friends  shall  put  them  into  their  hands,  they 
will  discover  in  such  of  them  as  are  here  abridged  (not  to  mention 
almost  as  many  more,  which  are  left  untouched)  many  surprising 
events  and  turns  of  fortune,  which  for  their  infinite  variety 
could  not  be  contained  in  this  little  book,  besides  a  world  of 
sprightly  and  cheerful  characters,  both  men  and  women,  the 
humor  of  which  it  was  feared  would  be  lost  if  it  were  attempted 
to  reduce  the  length  of  them. 

What  these  Tales  shall  have  been  to  the  young  readers,  that 
and  much  more  it  is  the  writers'  wish  that  the  true  Plays  of 
Shakespeare  may  prove  to  them  in  older  years — enrichers  of  the 
fancy,  strengtheners  of  virtue,  a  withdrawing  from  all  selfish  and 
mercenary  thoughts,  a  lesson  of  all  sweet  and  honorable  thoughts 
and  actions,  to  teach  courtesy,  benignity,  generosity,  humanity: 
for  of  examples,  teaching  these  virtues,  his  pages  are  full. 


^ALES    FROM    SHAKESPEARE 


THE   TEMPEST 

^HERE  was  a  certain  island  in  the  sea, 
the  only  inhabitants  of  which  were  an 
old  man,  whose  name  was  Prospero,  and 
his  daughter  Miranda,  a  very  beautiful 
young  lady.  She  came  to  this  island 
so  young  that  she  had  no  memory  o£ 
having  seen  any  other  human  face  than 
her  father's. 

They  lived  in  a  cave  or  cell,  made 
out  of  a  rock;  it  was  divided  into  several  apartments,  one 
of  which  Prospero  called  his  study;  there  he  kept  his  books, 
which  chiefly  treated  of  magic,  a  study  at  that  time  much 
affected  by  all  learned  men:  and  the  knowledge  of  this  art 
he  found  very  useful  to  him;  for  being  thrown  by  a  strange 
chance  upon  this  island,  which  had  been  enchanted  by  a 
witch  called  Sycorax,  who  died  there  a  short  time  before  his 
arrival,  Prospero,  by  virtue  of  his  art,  released  many  good 
spirits  that  Sycorax  had  imprisoned  in  the  bodies  of  large  trees, 
because  they  had  refused  to  execute  her  wicked  commands. 
These  gentle  spirits  were  ever  after  obedient  to  the  will  of  Pros- 
pero.    Of  these  Ariel  was  the  chief. 

The  lively  little  sprite  Ariel  had  nothing  mischievous  in  his 
nature,  except  that  he  took  rather  too  much  pleasure  in  tor- 
menting an  ugly  monster  called  Caliban,  for  he  owed  him  a 
grudge  because  he  was  the  son  of  his  old  enemy  Sycorax.  This 
Caliban,  Prospero  found  in  the  woods,  a  strange  misshapen 
thing,  far  less  human  in  form  than  an  ape:  he  took  him  home 
l  [i] 


TALES    FROM 

to  his  cell,  and  taught  him  to  speak;  and  Prospero  would  have 
been  very  kind  to  him,  but  the  bad  nature  which  Caliban  inherited 
from  his  mother,  Sycorax,  would  not  let  him  learn  anything 
good  or  useful:  therefore  he  was  employed  like  a  slave,  to 
fetch  wood  and  do  the  most  laborious  offices;  and  Ariel  had  the 
charge  of  compelling  him  to  these  services. 

When  Caliban  was  lazy  and  neglected  his  work,  Ariel  (who 
was  invisible  to  all  eyes  but  Prospero's)  would  come  slyly  and 
pinch  him,  and  sometimes  tumble  him  down  in  the  mire;  and 
then  Ariel,  in  the  likeness  of  an  ape,  would  make  mouths  at  him. 
Then  swiftly  changing  his  shape,  in  the  likeness  of  a  hedgehog,  he 
would  lie  tumbling  in  Caliban's  way,  who  feared  the  hedgehog's 
sharp  quills  would  prick  his  bare  feet.  With  a  variety  of  such-like 
vexatious  tricks  Ariel  would  often  torment  him,  whenever  Cali- 
ban neglected  the  work  which  Prospero  commanded  him  to  do. 

Having  these  powerful  spirits  obedient  to  his  will,  Prospero 
could  by  their  means  command  the  winds,  and  the  waves  of  the 
sea.  By  his  orders  they  raised  a  violent  storm,  in  the  midst 
of  which,  and  struggling  with  the  wild  sea-waves  that  every 
moment  threatened  to  swallow  it  up,  he  showed  his  daughter  a 
fine  large  ship,  which  he  told  her  was  full  of  living  beings  like 
themselves.  "O  my  dear  father,"  said  she,  "if  by  your  art 
you  have  raised  this  dreadful  storm,  have  pity  on  their  sad 
distress.  See!  the  vessel  will  be  dashed  to  pieces.  Poor  souls! 
they  will  all  perish.  If  I  had  power  I  would  sink  the  sea  beneath 
the  earth,  rather  than  the  good  ship  should  be  destroyed,  with 
all  the  precious  souls  within  her." 

"Be  not  amazed,  daughter  Miranda,"  said  Prospero;  "there 
is  no  harm  done.  I  have  so  ordered  it,  that  no  person  in  the  ship 
shall  receive  any  hurt.  What  I  have  done  has  been  in  care  of 
you,  my  dear  child.  You  are  ignorant  who  you  are,  or  where 
you  came  from,  and  you  know  no  more  of  me,  but  that  I  am 
your  father  and  live  in  this  poor  cave.  Can  you  remember  a 
time  before  you  came  to  this  cell?  I  think  you  cannot,  for  you 
were  not  then  three  years  of  age." 


PROSPERO,  MIRANDA,  AND  CALIBAN 


SHAKESPEARE 

"Certainly  I  can,  sir,"  replied  Miranda. 

"By  what?"  asked  Prospero;  "by  any  other  house  or  person? 
Tell  me  what  you  can  remember,  my  child." 

Miranda  said:  "It  seems  to  me  like  the  recollection  of  a  dream. 
But  had  I  not  once  four  or  five  women  who  attended  upon  me?" 

Prospero  answered :  "You  had,  and  more.  How  is  it  that  this 
still  lives  in  your  mind  ?     Do  you  remember  how  you  came  here  ?" 

"No,  sir,"  said  Miranda,  "I  remember  nothing  more." 

"Twelve  years  ago,  Miranda,"  continued  Prospero,  "I  was 
Duke  of  Milan,  and  you  were  a  princess,  and  my  only  heir.  I 
had  a  younger  brother,  whose  name  was  Antonio,  to  whom  I 
trusted  everything;  and  as  I  was  fond  of  retirement  and  deep 
study  I  commonly  left  the  management  of  my  state  affairs  to 
your  uncle,  my  false  brother  (for  so  indeed  he  proved).  I, 
neglecting  all  worldly  ends,  buried  among  my  books,  did  dedicate 
my  whole  time  to  the  bettering  of  my  mind.  My  brother  An- 
tonio, being  thus  in  possession  of  my  power,  began  to  think 
himself  the  duke  indeed.  The  opportunity  I  gave  him  of  making 
himself  popular  among  my  subjects  awakened  in  his  bad  nature 
a  proud  ambition  to  deprive  me  of  my  dukedom;  this  he  soon 
effected  with  the  aid  of  the  King  of  Naples,  a  powerful  prince, 
who  was  my  enemy." 

"Wherefore,"  said  Miranda,  "did  they  not  that  hour  destroy 

2" 

usr 

"My  child,"  answered  her  father,  "they  durst  not,  so  dear 
was  the  love  that  my  people  bore  me.  Antonio  carried  us  on 
board  a  ship,  and  when  we  were  some  leagues  out  at  sea,  he 
forced  us  into  a  small  boat,  without  either  tackle,  sail,  or  mast; 
there  he  left  us,  as  he  thought,  to  perish.  But  a  kind  lord  of  my 
court,  one  Gonzalo,  who  loved  me,  had  privately  placed  in  the 
boat  water,  provisions,  apparel,  and  some  books  which  I  prize 
above  my  dukedom." 

"O  my  father,"  said  Miranda,  "what  a  trouble  must  I  have 
been  to  you  then!" 

"No,  my  love,"  said  Prospero,  "you  were  a  little  cherub  that 

[5] 


TALES    FROM 

did  preserve  me.  Your  innocent  smiles  made  me  bear  up  against 
my  misfortunes.  Our  food  lasted  till  we  landed  on  this  desert 
island,  since  when  my  chief  delight  has  been  in  teaching  you, 
Miranda,  and  well  have  you  profited  by  my  instructions." 

"Heaven  thank  you,  my  dear  father,'*  said  Miranda.  "Now 
pray  tell  me,  sir,  your  reason  for  raising  this  sea-storm?" 

"Know  then,"  said  her  father,  "that  by  means  of  this  storm, 
my  enemies,  the  King  of  Naples  and  my  cruel  brother,  are  cast 
ashore  upon  this  island." 

Having  so  said,  Prospero  gently  touched  his  daughter  with 
his  magic  wand,  and  she  fell  fast  asleep;  for  the  spirit  Ariel  just 
then  presented  himself  before  his  master,  to  give  an  account 
of  the  tempest,  and  how  he  had  disposed  of  the  ship's  company, 
and  though  the  spirits  were  always  invisible  to  Miranda,  Prospero 
did  not  choose  she  should  hear  him  holding  converse  (as  would 
seem  to  her)  with  the  empty  air. 

"Well,  my  brave  spirit,"  said  Prospero  to  Ariel,  "how  have 
you  performed  your  task?" 

Ariel  gave  a  lively  description  of  the  storm,  and  of  the  terrors 
of  the  mariners,  and  how  the  king's  son,  Ferdinand,  was  the 
first  who  leaped  into  the  sea;  and  his  father  thought  he  saw 
his  dear  son  swallowed  up  by  the  waves  and  lost.  "But  he  is 
safe,"  said  Ariel,  "in  a  corner  of  the  isle,  sitting  with  his  arms 
folded,  sadly  lamenting  the  loss  of  the  king,  his  father,  whom 
he  concludes  drowned.  Not  a  hair  of  his  head  is  injured,  and 
his  princely  garments,  though  drenched  in  the  sea-waves,  look 
fresher  than  before." 

"That's  my  delicate  Ariel,"  said  Prospero.  "Bring  him 
hither:  my  daughter  must  see  this  young  prince.  Where  is  the 
king,  and  my  brother?" 

"I  left  them,"  answered  Ariel,  "searching  for  Ferdinand, 
whom  they  have  little  hopes  of  finding,  thinking  they  saw  him 
perish.  Of  the  ship's  crew  not  one  is  missing;  though  each  one 
thinks  himself  the  only  one  saved;  and  the  ship,  though  invisible 
to  them,  is  safe  in  the  harbor." 

[6] 


FULL  FAT]  1  LIES" 


SHAKESPEARE 

"Ariel,"  said  Prospero,  "thy  charge  is  faithfully  performed; 
but  there  is  more  work  yet." 

"Is  there  more  work?"  said  Ariel.  "Let  me  remind  you, 
master,  you  have  promised  me  my  liberty.  I  pray,  remember, 
I  have  done  you  worthy  service,  told  you  no  lies,  made  no  mis- 
takes, served  you  without  grudge  or  grumbling." 

"How  now!"  said  Prospero.  "You  do  not  recollect  what  a 
torment  I  freed  you  from.  Have  you  forgot  the  wicked  witch 
Sycorax,  who  with  age  and  envy  was  almost  bent  double?  Where 
was  she  born?     Speak;  tell  me." 

"Sir,  in  Algiers,"  said  Ariel. 

"Oh,  was  she  so?"  said  Prospero.  "I  must  recount  what 
you  have  been,  which  I  find  you  do  not  remember.  This  bad 
witch,  Sycorax,  for  her  witchcrafts,  too  terrible  to  enter  human 
hearing,  was  banished  from  Algiers,  and  here  left  by  the  sailors; 
and  because  you  were  a  spirit  too  delicate  to  execute  her  wicked 
commands,  she  shut  you  up  in  a  tree,  where  I  found  you  howling. 
This  torment,  remember,  I  did  free  you  from." 

"Pardon  me,  dear  master,"  said  Ariel,  ashamed  to  seem 
ungrateful;  "I  will  obey  your  commands." 

"Do  so,"  said  Prospero,  "and  I  will  set  you  free."  He  then 
gave  orders  what  further  he  would  have  him  do;  and  away 
went  Ariel,  first  to  where  he  had  left  Ferdinand,  and  found 
him  still  sitting  on  the  grass  in  the  same  melancholy  posture. 

"Oh,  my  young  gentleman,"  said  Ariel,  when  he  saw  him, 
"I  will  soon  move  you.  You  must  be  brought,  I  find,  for  the 
Lady  Miranda  to  have  a  sight  of  your  pretty  person.  Come, 
sir,  follow  me."     He  then  began  singing: 

"Full  fathom  five  thy  father  lies; 
Of  his  bones  are  coral  made; 
Those  are  pearls  that  were  his  eyes: 

Nothing  of  him  that  doth  fade, 
But  doth  suffer  a  sea-change 
Into  something  rich  and  strange. 
Sea-nymphs  hourly  ring  his  knell: 
Hark!    now  I  hear  them — Ding-dong,  bell." 
[91 


TALES    FROM 

This  strange  news  of  his  lost  father  soon  roused  the  prince 
from  the  stupid  fit  into  which  he  had  fallen.  He  followed  in 
amazement  the  sound  of  Ariel's  voice,  till  it  led  him  to  Prospero 
and  Miranda,  who  were  sitting  under  the  shade  of  a  large  tree. 
Now  Miranda  had  never  seen  a  man  before,  except  her  own 
father. 

"Miranda,"  said  Prospero,  "tell  me  what  you  are  looking  at 
yonder." 

"Oh,  father,"  said  Miranda,  in  a  strange  surprise,  "surely 
that  is  a  spirit.  Lord!  how  it  looks  about!  Believe  me,  sir, 
it  is  a  beautiful  creature.     Is  it  not  a  spirit?" 

"No,  girl,"  answered  her  father;  "it  eats,  and  sleeps,  and 
has  senses  such  as  we  have.  This  young  man  you  see  was  in 
the  ship.  He  is  somewhat  altered  by  grief,  or  you  might  call 
him  a  handsome  person.  He  has  lost  his  companions,  and  is 
wandering  about  to  find  them." 

Miranda,  who  thought  all  men  had  grave  faces  and  gray 
beards  like  her  father,  was  delighted  with  the  appearance  of 
this  beautiful  young  prince;  and  Ferdinand,  seeing  such  a  lovely 
lady  in  this  desert  place,  and  from  the  strange  sounds  he  had 
heard,  expecting  nothing  but  wonders,  thought  he  was  upon  an 
enchanted  island,  and  that  Miranda  was  the  goddess  of  the 
place,  and  as  such  he  began  to  address  her. 

She  timidly  answered,  she  was  no  goddess,  but  a  simple  maid, 
and  was  going  to  give  him  an  account  of  herself,  when  Prospero 
interrupted  her.  He  was  well  pleased  to  find  they  admired  each 
other,  for  he  plainly  perceived  they  had  (as  we  say)  fallen  in  love 
at  first  sight:  but  to  try  Ferdinand's  constancy,  he  resolved  to 
throw  some  difficulties  in  their  way:  therefore,  advancing  for- 
ward, he  addressed  the  prince  with  a  stern  air,  telling  him,  he 
came  to  the  island  as  a  spy,  to  take  it  from  him  who  was  the 
lord  of  it.  "Follow  me,"  said  he.  "I  will  tie  your  neck  and 
feet  together.  You  shall  drink  sea-water;  shell-fish,  withered 
roots,  and  husks  of  acorns  shall  be  your  food." 

"No,"  said  Ferdinand,  "I  will  resist  such  entertainment  till 

[10] 


SHAKESPEARE 

I  see  a  more  powerful  enemy,"  and  drew  his  sword;  but  Prospero, 
waving  his  magic  wand,  fixed  him  to  the  spot  where  he  stood, 
so  that  he  had  no  power  to  move. 

Miranda  hung  upon  her  father,  saying:  "Why  are  you  so  un- 
gentle ?  Have  pity, 

sir;   I  will  be  his    WjmjJ^f^^g^M^ 
surety.    This  is  the 
second  man  I  ever 
saw,  and  to  me  he 
seems  a  true  one." 

"Silence!"     said 
the  father.     "One 
word    more    will 
make  me  chide  you, 
girl!     What!    an 
advocate  for    an 
impostor!      You 
think  there  are  no 
more  such  fine  men, 
having    seen    only  ^& 
him   and   Caliban. 
I  tell  you,  foolish 
girl,  most  men   as 
far    excel   this    as 
he  does  Caliban." 
This   he   said   to 
prove  his  daughter's 
constancy;  and  she 
replied : 

"My  affections  are  most  humble, 
goodlier  man." 

"Come  on,  young  man,"  said  Prospero  to  the  prince; 
have  no  power  to  disobey  me." 

"I  have  not  indeed,"  answered  Ferdinand;   and  not  knowing 
that  it  was  by  magic  he  was  deprived  of  all  power  of  resistance, 

In] 


I  have  no  wish  to  see  a 


you 


TALES    FROM 

he  was  astonished  to  find  himself  so  strangely  compelled  to 
follow  Prospero;  looking  back  on  Miranda  as  long  as  he  could 
see  her,  he  said,  as  he  went  after  Prospero  into  the  cave,  "My 
spirits  are  all  bound  up,  as  if  I  were  in  a  dream;  but  this  man's 
threats,  and  the  weakness  which  I  feel,  would  seem  light  to  me  if 
from  my  prison  I  might  once  a  day  behold  this  fair  maid." 

Prospero  kept  Ferdinand  not  long  confined  within  the  cell:  he 
soon  brought  out  his  prisoner,  and  set  him  a  severe  task  to  per- 
form, taking  care  to  let  his  daughter  know  the  hard  labor  he  had 
imposed  on  him,  and  then  pretending  to  go  into  his  study,  he 
secretly  watched  them  both. 

Prospero  had  commanded  Ferdinand  to  pile  up  some  heavy 
logs  of  wood.  Kings'  sons  not  being  much  used  to  laborious 
work,  Miranda  soon  after  found  her  lover  almost  dying  with 
fatigue.  "Alas!"  said  she,  "do  not  work  so  hard;  my  father  is 
at  his  studies,  he  is  safe  for  these  three  hours;  pray  rest  yourself." 

"Oh,  my  dear  lady,"  said  Ferdinand,  "I  dare  not.  I  must 
finish  my  task  before  I  take  my  rest." 

"If  you  will  sit  down,"  said  Miranda,  "I  will  carry  your  logs 
the  while."  But  this  Ferdinand  would  by  no  means  agree  to. 
Instead  of  a  help  Miranda  became  a  hindrance,  for  they  began 
a  long  conversation,  so  that  the  business  of  log-carrying  went 
on  very  slowly. 

Prospero,  who  had  enjoined  Ferdinand  this  task  merely  as  a 
trial  of  his  love,  was  not  at  his  books,  as  his  daughter  supposed, 
but  was  standing  by  them  invisible,  to  overhear  what  they  said. 

Ferdinand  inquired  her  name,  which  she  told,  saying  it  was 
against  her  father's  express  command  she  did  so. 

Prospero  only  smiled  at  this  first  instance  of  his  daughter's 
disobedience,  for  having  by  his  magic  art  caused  his  daughter  to 
fall  in  love  so  suddenly,  he  was  not  angry  that  she  showed  her 
love  by  forgetting  to  obey  his  commands.  And  he  listened  well 
pleased  to  a  long  speech  of  Ferdinand's,  in  which  he  professed  to 
love  her  above  all  the  ladies  he  ever  saw. 

In  answer  to  his  praises  of  her  beauty,  which  he  said  exceeded 

[12] 


SHAKESPEARE 

all  the  women  in  the  world,  she  replied:  "I  do  not  remember  the 
face  of  any  woman,  nor  have  I  seen  any  more  men  than  you,  my 
good  friend,  and  my  dear  father.  How  features  are  abroad,  I 
know  not;  but,  believe  me,  sir,  I  would  not  wish  any  companion 
in  the  world  but  you,  nor  can  my  imagination  form  any  shape 
but  yours  that  I  could  like.  But,  sir,  I  fear  I  talk  to  you  too 
freely,  and  my  father's  precepts  I  forget." 

At  this  Prospero  smiled,  and  nodded  his  head,  as  much  as  to  say, 
"This  goes  on  exactly  as  I  could  wish;  my  girl  will  be  Queen  of 
Naples." 

And  then  Ferdinand,  in  another  fine  long  speech  (for  young 
princes  speak  in  courtly  phrases),  told  the  innocent  Miranda  he 
was  heir  to  the  crown  of  Naples,  and  that  she  should  be  his  queen. 

"Ah!  sir,"  said  she,  "I  am  a  fool  to  weep  at  what  I  am  glad 
of.  I  will  answer  you  in  plain  and  holy  innocence.  I  am  your 
wife  if  you  will  marry  me." 

Prospero  prevented  Ferdinand's  thanks  by  appearing  visible 
before  them. 

"Fear  nothing,  my  child,"  said  he;  "I  have  overheard,  and 
approve  of  all  you  have  said.  And,  Ferdinand,  if  I  have  too 
severely  used  you,  I  will  make  you  rich  amends  by  giving  you 
my  daughter.  All  your  vexations  were  but  trials  of  your  love,  and 
you  have  nobly  stood  the  test.  Then  as  my  gift,  which  your 
true  love  has  worthily  purchased,  take  my  daughter,  and  do  not 
smile  that  I  boast  she  is  above  all  praise."  He  then,  telling  them 
that  he  had  business  which  required  his  presence,  desired  they 
would  sit  down  and  talk  together  till  he  returned;  and  this  com- 
mand Miranda  seemed  not  at  all  disposed  to  disobey. 

When  Prospero  left  them  he  called  his  spirit  Ariel,  who  quickly 
appeared  before  him,  eager  to  relate  what  he  had  done  with 
Prospero's  brother  and  the  King  of  Naples.  Ariel  said  he  had 
left  them  almost  out  of  their  senses  with  fear,  at  the  strange 
things  he  had  caused  them  to  see  and  hear.  When  fatigued 
with  wandering  about,  and  famished  for  want  of  food,  he  had 
suddenly  set  before  them  a  delicious  banquet,  and  then,  just  as 

[13] 


TALES    FROM 

they  were  going  to  eat,  he  appeared  visible  before  them  in  the 
shape  of  a  harpy,  a  voracious  monster  with  wings,  and  the  feast 
vanished  away.  Then,  to  their  utter  amazement,  this  seeming 
harpy  spoke  to  them,  reminding  them  of  their  cruelty  in  driving 
Prospero  from  his  dukedom,  and  leaving  him  and  his  infant 
daughter  to  perish  in  the  sea,  saying,  that  for  this  cause  these 
terrors  were  suffered  to  afflict  them. 

The  King  of  Naples,  and  Antonio  the  false  brother,  repented 
the  injustice  they  had  done  to  Prospero;  and  Ariel  told  his  master 
he  was  certain  their  penitence  was  sincere,  and  that  he,  though 
a  spirit,  could  not  but  pity  them. 

"Then  bring  them  hither,  Ariel,"  said  Prospero:  "if  you, 
who  are  but  a  spirit,  feel  for  their  distress,  shall  not  I,  who  am 
a  human  being  like  themselves,  have  compassion  on  them? 
Bring  them  quickly,  my  dainty  Ariel." 

Ariel  soon  returned  with  the  king,  Antonio,  and  old  Gonzalo  in 
their  train,  who  had  followed  him,  wondering  at  the  wild  music  he 
played  in  the  air  to  draw  them  on  to  his  master's  presence.  This 
Gonzalo  was  the  same  who  had  so  kindly  provided  Prospero 
formerly  with  books  and  provisions,  when  his  wicked  brother 
left  him,  as  he  thought,  to  perish  in  an  open  boat  in  the  sea. 

Grief  and  terror  had  so  stupefied  their  senses  that  they  did 
not  know  Prospero.  He  first  discovered  himself  to  the  good  old 
Gonzalo,  calling  him  the  preserver  of  his  life;  and  then  his 
brother  and  the  king  knew  that  he  was  the  injured  Prospero. 

Antonio,  with  tears  and  sad  words  of  sorrow  and  true  re- 
pentance, implored  his  brother's  forgiveness,  and  the  king  ex- 
pressed his  sincere  remorse  for  having  assisted  Antonio  to  depose 
his  brother:  and  Prospero  forgave  them;  and,  upon  their  engag- 
ing to  restore  his  dukedom,  he  said  to  the  King  of  Naples,  "I 
have  a  gift  in  store  for  you,  too";  and,  opening  a  door,  showed 
him  his  son  Ferdinand  playing  at  chess  with  Miranda. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  joy  of  the  father  and  the  son  at 
this  unexpected  meeting,  for  they  each  thought  the  other  drowned 
in  the  storm. 

[14] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"Oh  wonder!"  said  Miranda,  "what  noble  creatures  these  are! 
It  must  surely  be  a  brave  world  that  has  such  people  in  it." 

The  King  of  Naples  was  almost  as  much  astonished  at  the 
beauty  and  excellent  graces  of  the  young  Miranda  as  his  son 
had  been.  "Who  is  this  maid?"  said  he;  "she  seems  the  goddess 
that  has  parted  us,  and  brought  us  thus  together." 

"No,  sir,"  answered  Ferdinand,  smiling  to  find  his  father  had 
fallen  into  the  same  mistake  that  he  had  done  when  he  first  saw 
Miranda,  "she  is  a  mortal,  but  by  immortal  Providence  she  is 
mine;  I  chose  her  when  I  could  not  ask  you,  my  father,  for 
your  consent,  not  thinking  you  were  alive.  She  is  the  daughter 
to  this  Prospero,  who  is  the  famous  Duke  of  Milan,  of  whose 
renown  I  have  heard  so  much,  but  never  saw  him  till  now:  of 
him  I  have  received  a  new  life:  he  has  made  himself  to  me  a 
second  father,  giving  me  this  dear  lady." 

"Then  I  must  be  her  father,"  said  the  king;  "but,  oh,  how 
oddly  will  it  sound,  that  I  must  ask  my  child  forgiveness." 

"No  more  of  that,"  said  Prospero:  "let  us  not  remember  our 
troubles  past,  since  they  so  happily  have  ended."  And  then 
Prospero  embraced  his  brother,  and  again  assured  him  of  his 
forgiveness;  and  said  that  a  wise  overruling  Providence  had 
permitted  that  he  should  be  driven  from  his  poor  dukedom  of 
Milan,  that  his  daughter  might  inherit  the  crown  of  Naples,  for 
that  by  their  meeting  in  this  desert  island  it  had  happened  that 
the  king's  son  had  loved  Miranda. 

These  kind  words  which  Prospero  spoke,  meaning  to  comfort 
his  brother,  so  filled  Antonio  with  shame  and  remorse  that  he 
wept  and  was  unable  to  speak;  and  the  kind  old  Gonzalo  wept 
to  see  this  joyful  reconciliation,  and  prayed  for  blessings  on  the 
young  couple. 

Prospero  now  told  them  that  their  ship  was  safe  in  the  harbor, 
and  the  sailors  all  on  board  her,  and  that  he  and  his  daughter 
would  accompany  them  home  the  next  morning.  "In  the  mean 
time,"  says  he,  "partake  of  such  refreshments  as  my  poor  cave 
affords;    and   for  your  evening's  entertainment   I  will   relate 

[IS] 


TALES    FROM 

the  history  of  my  life  from  my  first  landing  in  this  desert  island." 
He  then  called  for  Caliban  to  prepare  some  food,  and  set  the 
cave  in  order;  and  the  company  were  astonished  at  the  uncouth 
form  and  savage  appearance  of  this  ugly  monster,  who  (Prospero 
said)  was  the  only  attendant  he  had  to  wait  upon  him. 

Before  Prospero  left  the  island  he  dismissed  Ariel  from  his 
service,  to  the  great  joy  of  that  lively  little  spirit,  who,  though 
he  had  been  a  faithful  servant  to  his  master,  was  always  longing 
to  enjoy  his  free  liberty,  to  wander  uncontrolled  in  the  air,  like  a 
wild  bird,  under  green  trees,  among  pleasant  fruits,  and  sweet- 
smelling  flowers. 

"My  quaint  Ariel,"  said  Prospero  to  the  little  sprite  when  he  made 
him  free,  "I  shall  miss  you;  yet  you  shall  have  your  freedom." 

"Thank  you,  my  dear  master,"  said  Ariel;  "but  give  me  leave 
to  attend  your  ship  home  with  prosperous  gales,  before  you  bid 
farewell  to  the  assistance  of  your  faithful  spirit;  and  then, 
master,  when  I  am  free,  how  merrily  I  shall  live!"  Here  Ariel 
sang  this  pretty  song: 

"Where  the  bee  sucks,  there  suck  I; 
In  a  cowslip's  bell  I  lie: 
There  I  crouch  when  owls  do  cry. 
On  the  bat's  back  I  do  fly 
After  summer  merrily. 
Merrily,  merrily  shall  I  live  now 
Under  the  blossom  that  hangs  on  the  bough." 

Prospero  then  buried  deep  in  the  earth  his  magical  books  and 
wand,  for  he  was  resolved  never  more  to  make  use  of  the  magic 
art.  And  having  thus  overcome  his  enemies,  and  being  recon- 
ciled to  his  brother  and  the  King  of  Naples,  nothing  now  remained 
to  complete  his  happiness  but  to  revisit  his  native  land,  to  take 
possession  of  his  dukedom,  and  to  witness  the  happy  nuptials 
of  his  daughter  and  Prince  Ferdinand,  which  the  king  said 
should  be  instantly  celebrated  with  great  splendor  on  their 
return  to  Naples.  At  which  place,  under  the  safe  convoy  of  the 
spirit  Ariel,  they,  after  a  pleasant  voyage,  soon  arrived. 

[I6J 


o 

H 

w 

w 

> 

H 
CO 

> 
o 


o 

o 


SHAKESPEARE 


A  MIDSUMMER  NIGHTS  DREAM 
*Qr*.  .j^ygggg^HERE  was  a  law  in  the  city  of  Athens 

which  gave  to  its  citizens  the  power  of 
compelling  their  daughters  to  marry 
whomsoever  they  pleased;  for  upon  a 
daughter's  refusing  to  marry  the  man 
her  father  had  chosen  to  be  her  hus- 
band, the  father  was  empowered  by  this 
law  to  cause  her  to  be  put  to  death; 
but  as  fathers  do  not  often  desire  the 
death  of  their  own  daughters,  even  though  they  do  happen  to 
prove  a  little  refractory,  this  law  was  seldom  or  never  put 
in  execution,  though  perhaps  the  young  ladies  of  that  city 
were  not  unfrequently  threatened  by  their  parents  with  the 
terrors  of  it. 

There  was  one  instance,  however,  of  an  old  man,  whose  name 
was  Egeus,  who  actually  did  come  before  Theseus  (at  that  time 
the  reigning  Duke  of  Athens),  to  complain  that  his  daughter 
Hermia,  whom  he  had  commanded  to  marry  Demetrius,  a  young 
man  of  a  noble  Athenian  family,  refused  to  obey  him,  because 
she  loved  another  young  Athenian,  named  Lysander.  Egeus 
demanded  justice  of  Theseus,  and  desired  that  this  cruel  law 
might  be  put  in  force  against  his  daughter. 

Hermia  pleaded  in  excuse  for  her  disobedience  that  Demetrius 
had  formerly  professed  love  for  her  dear  friend  Helena,  and  that 
Helena  loved  Demetrius  to  distraction;  but  this  honorable  reason, 
which  Hermia  gave  for  not  obeying  her  father's  command,  moved 
not  the  stern  Egeus. 

Theseus,  though  a  great  and  merciful  prince,  had  no  power  to 
alter  the  laws  of  his  country;  therefore  he  could  only  give  Hermia 

[19] 


TALES    FROM 

four  days  to  consider  of  it:  and  at  the  end  of  that  time,  if  she  still 
refused  to  marry  Demetrius,  she  was  to  be  put  to  death. 

When  Hermia  was  dismissed  from  the  presence  of  the  duke, 
she  went  to  her  lover  Lysander  and  told  him  the  peril  she  was  in, 
and  that  she  must  either  give  him  up  and  marry  Demetrius  or 
lose  her  life  in  four  days. 

Lysander  was  in  great  affliction  at  hearing  these  evil  tidings; 
but,  recollecting  that  he  had  an  aunt  who  lived  at  some  distance 
from  Athens,  and  that  at  the  place  where  she  lived  the  cruel  law 
could  not  be  put  in  force  against  Hermia  (this  law  not  extending 
beyond  the  boundaries  of  the  city),  he  proposed  to  Hermia  that 
she  should  steal  out  of  her  father's  house  that  night,  and  go  with 
him  to  his  aunt's  house,  where  he  would  marry  her.  "I  will 
meet  you,"  said  Lysander,  "in  the  wood  a  few  miles  without  the 
city;  in  that  delightful  wood  where  we  have  so  often  walked 
with  Helena  in  the  pleasant  month  of  May." 

To  this  proposal  Hermia  joyfully  agreed;  and  she  told  no  one 
of  her  intended  flight  but  her  friend  Helena.  Helena  (as  maidens 
will  do  foolish  things  for  love)  very  ungenerously  resolved  to  go 
and  tell  this  to  Demetrius,  though  she  could  hope  no  benefit 
from  betraying  her  friend's  secret  but  the  poor  pleasure  of  follow- 
ing her  faithless  lover  to  the  wood;  for  she  well  knew  that 
Demetrius  would  go  thither  in  pursuit  of  Hermia. 

The  wood  in  which  Lysander  and  Hermia  proposed  to  meet 
was  the  favorite  haunt  of  those  little  beings  known  by  the 
name  of  "fairies." 

Oberon  the  king,  and  Titania  the  queen  of  the  fairies,  with 
all  their  tiny  train  of  followers,  in  this  wood  held  their  midnight 
revels. 

Between  this  little  king  and  queen  of  sprites  there  happened, 
at  this  time,  a  sad  disagreement;  they  never  met  by  moonlight 
in  the  shady  walks  of  this  pleasant  wood  but  they  were  quarreling, 
till  all  their  fairy  elves  would  creep  into  acorn-cups  and  hide 
themselves  for  fear. 

The  cause  of  this  unhappy  disagreement  was  Titania's  refusing 

[20] 


PUCK 


SHAKESPEARE 

to  give  Oberon  a  little  changeling  boy,  whose  mother  had  been 
Titania's  friend;  and  upon  her  death  the  fairy  queen  stole  the 
child  from  its  nurse  and  brought  him  up  in  the  woods. 

The  night  on  which  the  lovers  were  to  meet  in  this  wood,  as 
Titania  was  walking  with  some  of  her  maids  of  honor,  she  met 
Oberon  attended  by  his  train  of  fairy  courtiers. 

"Ill  met  by  moonlight,  proud  Titania,"  said  the  fairy  king. 

The  queen  replied :  "What,  jealous  Oberon,  is  it  you?  Fairies, 
skip  hence;   I  have  forsworn  his  company." 

"Tarry,  rash  fairy,"  said  Oberon.  "Am  I  not  thy  lord?  Why 
does  Titania  cross  her  Oberon?  Give  me  your  little  changeling 
boy  to  be  my  page." 

"Set  your  heart  at  rest,"  answered  the  queen;  "your  whole 
fairy  kingdom  buys  not  the  boy  of  me."  She  then  left  her  lord 
in  great  anger. 

"Well,  go  your  way,"  said  Oberon;  "before  the  morning  dawns 
I  will  torment  you  for  this  injury." 

Oberon  then  sent  for  Puck,  his  chief  favorite  and  privy  coun- 
selor. 

Puck  (or,  as  he  was  sometimes  called,  Robin  Goodfellow)  was 
a  shrewd  and  knavish  sprite,  that  used  to  play  comical  pranks 
in  the  neighboring  villages;  sometimes  getting  into  the  dairies  and 
skimming  the  milk,  sometimes  plunging  his  light  and  airy  form 
into  the  butter-churn,  and  while  he  was  dancing  his  fantastic 
shape  in  the  churn,  in  vain  the  dairymaid  would  labor  to  change 
her  cream  into  butter.  Nor  had  the  village  swains  any  better 
success;  whenever  Puck  chose  to  play  his  freaks  in  the  brewing 
copper,  the  ale  was  sure  to  be  spoiled.  When  a  few  good  neighbors 
were  met  to  drink  some  comfortable  ale  together,  Puck  would 
jump  into  the  bowl  of  ale  in  the  likeness  of  a  roasted  crab,  and 
when  some  old  goody  was  going  to  drink  he  would  bob  against  her 
lips,  and  spill  the  ale  over  her  withered  chin;  and  presently  after, 
when  the  same  old  dame  was  gravely  seating  herself  to  tell  her 
neighbors  a  sad  and  melancholy  story,  Puck  would  slip  her 
three-legged  stool  from  under  her,  and  down  toppled  the  poor  old 

l*3l 


TALES    FROM 

woman,  and  then  the  old  gossips  would  hold  their  sides  and 
laugh  at  her,  and  swear  they  never  wasted  a  merrier  hour. 

"Come  hither,  Puck,"  said  Oberon  to  this  little  merry  wanderer 
of  the  night;  "fetch  me  the  flower  which  maids  call  'Love  in 
Idleness';  the  juice  of  that  little  purple  flower  laid  on  the  eye- 
lids of  those  who  sleep  will  make  them,  when  they  awake,  dote 
on  the  first  thing  they  see.  Some  of  the  juice  of  that  flower  I 
will  drop  on  the  eyelids  of  my  Titania  when  she  is  asleep;  and  the 
first  thing  she  looks  upon  when  she  opens  her  eyes  she  will  fall 
in  love  with,  even  though  it  be  a  lion  or  a  bear,  a  meddling 
monkey  or  a  busy  ape;  and  before  I  will  take  this  charm  from 
off  her  sight,  which  I  can  do  with  another  charm  I  know  of, 
I  will  make  her  give  me  that  boy  to  be  my  page." 

Puck,  who  loved  mischief  to  his  heart,  was  highly  diverted 
with  this  intended  frolic  of  his  master,  and  ran  to  seek  the  flower; 
and  while  Oberon  was  waiting  the  return  of  Puck  he  observed 
Demetrius  and  Helena  enter  the  wood:  he  overheard  Demetrius 
reproaching  Helena  for  following  him,  and  after  many  unkind 
words  on  his  part,  and  gentle  expostulations  from  Helena,  re- 
minding him  of  his  former  love  and  professions  of  true  faith  to 
her,  he  left  her  (as  he  said)  to  the  mercy  of  the  wild  beasts,  and 
she  ran  after  him  as  swiftly  as  she  could. 

The  fairy  king,  who  was  always  friendly  to  true  lovers,  felt  great 
compassion  for  Helena;  and  perhaps,  as  Lysander  said  they 
used  to  walk  by  moonlight  in  this  pleasant  wood,  Oberon  might 
have  seen  Helena  in  those  happy  times  when  she  was  beloved 
by  Demetrius.  However  that  might  be,  when  Puck  returned 
with  the  little  purple  flower,  Oberon  said  to  his  favorite:  "Take 
a  part  of  this  flower;  there  has  been  a  sweet  Athenian  lady 
here,  who  is  in  love  with  a  disdainful  youth;  if  you  find  him 
sleeping,  drop  some  of  the  love-juice  in  his  eyes,  but  contrive 
to  do  it  when  she  is  near  him,  that  the  first  thing  he  sees  when 
he  awakes  may  be  this  despised  lady.  You  will  know  the  man 
by  the  Athenian  garments  which  he  wears." 

Puck  promised  to  manage  this  matter  very  dexterously:   and 

[24] 


SHAKESPEARE 

then  Oberon  went,  unperceived  by  Titania,  to  her  bower,  where 
she  was  preparing  to  goto  rest.  Her  fairy  bower  was  a  bank,  where 
grew  wild  thyme,  cowslips,  and  sweet  violets,  under  a  canopy  of 
woodbine,  musk-roses,  and  eglantine.  There  Titania  always  slept 
some  part  of  the  night;  her  coverlet  the  enameled  skin  of  a  snake, 
which,  though  a  small  mantle,  was  wide  enough  to  wrap  a  fairy  in. 


He  found  Titania  giving  orders  to  her  fairies,  how  they  were 
to  employ  themselves  while  she  slept.  "Some  of  you/'  said 
her  Majesty,  "must  kill  cankers  in  the  musk-rose  buds,  and 
some  wage  war  with  the  bats  for  their  leathern  wings,  to  make 
my  small  elves  coats;  and  some  of  you  keep  watch  that  the 
clamorous  owl,  that  nightly  hoots,  come  not  near  me:  but  first 
sing  me  to  sleep."    Then  they  began  to  sing  this  song: 

"You  spotted  snakes,  with  double  tongue, 
Thorny  hedgehogs,  be  not  seen; 
Newts  and  blind-worms  do  no  wrong; 
Come  not  near  our  fairy  queen: 
[251 


TALES    FROM 

"Philomel,  with  melody, 
Sing  in  our  sweet  lullaby; 
Lulla,  lulla,  lullaby;   lulla,  lulla,  lullaby; 
Never  harm,  nor  spell,  nor  charm, 
Come  our  lovely  lady  nigh; 
So,  good  night,  with  lullaby." 

When  the  fairies  had  sung  their  queen  asleep  with  this  pretty 
lullaby,  they  left  her  to  perform  the  important  services  she 
had  enjoined  them.  Oberon  then  softly  drew  near  his  Titania 
and  dropped  some  of  the  love-juice  on  her  eyelids,  saying: 

"What  thou  seest  when  thou  dost  wake, 
Do  it  for  thy  true-love  take." 

But  to  return  to  Hermia,  who  made  her  escape  out  of  her 
father's  house  that  night,  to  avoid  the  death  she  was  doomed  to 
for  refusing  to  marry  Demetrius.  When  she  entered  the  wood, 
she  found  her  dear  Lysander  waiting  for  her,  to  conduct  her  to 
his  aunt's  house;  but  before  they  had  passed  half  through  the 
wood  Hermia  was  so  much  fatigued  that  Lysander,  who  was 
very  careful  of  this  dear  lady,  who  had  proved  her  affection 
for  him  even  by  hazarding  her  life  for  his  sake,  persuaded  her 
to  rest  till  morning  on  a  bank  of  soft  moss,  and,  lying  down  him- 
self on  the  ground  at  some  little  distance,  they  soon  fell  fast 
asleep.  Here  they  were  found  by  Puck,  who,  seeing  a  handsome 
young  man  asleep,  and  perceiving  that  his  clothes  were  made  in 
the  Athenian  fashion,  and  that  a  pretty  lady  was  sleeping  near 
him,  concluded  that  this  must  be  the  Athenian  maid  and  her 
disdainful  lover  whom  Oberon  had  sent  him  to  seek;  and  he 
naturally  enough  conjectured  that,  as  they  were  alone  together, 
she  must  be  the  first  thing  he  would  see  when  he  awoke;  so, 
without  more  ado,  he  proceeded  to  pour  some  of  the  juice  of 
the  little  purple  flower  into  his  eyes.  But  it  so  fejl  out  that 
Helena  came  that  way,  and,  instead  of  Hermia,  was  the  first 
object  Lysander  beheld  when  he  opened  his  eyes;  and  strange 
to  relate,  so  powerful  was  the  love-charm,  all  his  love  for  Hermia 
vanished  away  and  Lysander  fell  in  love  with  Helena. 

[26] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Had  he  first  seen  Hermia  when  he  awoke,  the  blunder  Puck 
committed  would  have  been  of  no  consequence,  for  he  could 
not  love  that  faithful  lady  too  well;  but  for  poor  Lysander 
to  be  forced  by  a  fairy  love-charm  to  forget  his  own  true 
Hermia,  and  to  run  after  another  lady,  and  leave  Hermia 
asleep  quite  alone  in  a  wood  at  midnight,  was  a  sad  chance 
indeed. 

Thus  this  misfortune  happened.  Helena,  as  has  been  before 
related,  endeavored  to  keep  pace  with  Demetrius  when  he  ran 
away  so  rudely  from  her;  but  she  could  not  continue  this  unequal 
race  long,  men  being  always  better  runners  in  a  long  race  than 
ladies.  Helena  soon  lost  sight  of  Demetrius;  and  as  she  was 
wandering  about,  dejected  and  forlorn,  she  arrived  at  the  place 
where  Lysander  was  sleeping.  "Ah!"  said  she,  "this  is  Lysander 
lying  on  the  ground.  Is  he  dead  or  asleep?"  Then,  gently 
touching  him,  she  said,  "Good  sir,  if  you  are  alive,  awake." 
Upon  this  Lysander  opened  his  eyes,  and,  the  love-charm  begin- 
ning to  work,  immediately  addressed  her  in  terms  of  extravagant 
love  and  admiration,  telling  her  she  as  much  excelled  Hermia  in 
beauty  as  a  dove  does  a  raven,  and  that  he  would  run  through 
fire  for  her  sweet  sake;  and  many  more  such  lover-like  speeches. 
Helena,  knowing  Lysander  was  her  friend  Hermia's  lover,  and 
that  he  was  solemnly  engaged  to  marry  her,  was  in  the  utmost 
rage  when  she  heard  herself  addressed  in  this  manner;  for  she 
thought  (as  well  she  might)  that  Lysander  was  making  a  jest 
of  her.  "Oh!"  said  she,  "why  was  I  born  to  be  mocked  and 
scorned  by  every  one?  Is  it  not  enough,  is  it  not  enough,  young 
man,  that  I  can  never  get  a  sweet  look  or  a  kind  word  from 
Demetrius;  but  you,  sir,  must  pretend  in  this  disdainful  manner 
to  court  me?  I  thought,  Lysander,  you  were  a  lord  of  more  true 
gentleness."  Saying  these  words  in  great  anger,  she  ran  away; 
and  Lysander  followed  her,  quite  forgetful  of  his  own  Hermia, 
who  was  still  asleep. 

When  Hermia  awoke  she  was  in  a  sad  fright  at  finding  herself 
alone.     She  wandered  about  the  wood,  not  knowing  what  was 

[27] 


TALES    FROM 

become  of  Lysander,  or  which  way  to  go  to  seek  for  him.  In 
the  mean  time  Demetrius,  not  being  able  to  find  Hermia  and  his 
rival  Lysander,  and  fatigued  with  his  fruitless  search,  was  ob- 
served by  Oberon  fast  asleep.  Oberon  had  learned  by  some 
questions  he  had  asked  of  Puck  that  he  had  applied  the  love- 
charm  to  the  wrong  person's  eyes;  and  now,  having  found  the 
person  first  intended,  he  touched  the  eyelids  of  the  sleeping 
Demetrius  with  the  love-juice,  and  he  instantly  awoke;  and 
the  first  thing  he  saw  being  Helena,  he,  as  Lysander  had  done 
before,  began  to  address  love-speeches  to  her;  and  just  at  that 
moment  Lysander,  followed  by  Hermia  (for  through  Puck's 
unlucky  mistake  it  was  now  become  Hermia's  turn  to  run 
after  her  lover),  made  his  appearance;  and  then  Lysander  and 
Demetrius,  both  speaking  together,  made  love  to  Helena, 
they  being  each  one  under  the  influence  of  the  same  potent 
charm. 

The  astonished  Helena  thought  that  Demetrius,  Lysander,  and 
her  once  dear  friend  Hermia  were  all  in  a  plot  together  to  make 
a  jest  of  her. 

Hermia  was  as  much  surprised  as  Helena;  she  knew  not 
why  Lysander  and  Demetrius,  who  both  before  loved  her,  were 
now  become  the  lovers  of  Helena,  and  to  Hermia  the  matter 
seemed  to  be  no  jest. 

The  ladies,  who  before  had  always  been  the  dearest  of  friends, 
now  fell  to  high  words  together. 

"Unkind  Hermia,"  said  Helena,  "it  is  you  have  set  Lysander 
on  to  vex  me  with  mock  praises;  and  your  other  lover,  De- 
metrius, who  used  almost  to  spurn  me  with  his  foot,  have  you 
not  bid  him  call  me  goddess,  nymph,  rare,  precious,  and  celestial? 
He  would  not  speak  thus  to  me,  whom  he  hates,  if  you  did  not 
set  him  on  to  make  a  jest  of  me.  Unkind  Hermia,  to  join  with 
men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend.  Have  you  forgot  our  school- 
day  friendship?  How  often,  Hermia,  have  we  two,  sitting  on 
one  cushion,  both  singing  one  song,  with  our  needles  working 

the  same  flower,  both  on  the  same  sampler  wrought;  growing  up 

[28] 


SHAKESPEARE 

together  in  fashion  of  a  double  cherry,  scarcely  seeming  parted! 
Hermia,  it  is  not  friendly  in  you,  it  is  not  maidenly  to  join  with 
men  in  scorning  your  poor  friend." 

"I  am  amazed  at  your  passionate  words,"  said  Hermia:  "I 
scorn  you  not;  it  seems  you  scorn  me." 

"Aye,  do,"  returned  Helena,  "persevere,  counterfeit  serious 
looks,  and  make  mouths  at  me  when  I  turn  my  back;  then  wink 
at  each  other,  and  hold  the  sweet  jest  up.  If  you  had  any  pity, 
grace,  or  manners,  you  would  not  use  me  thus." 

While  Helena  and  Hermia  were  speaking  these  angry  words 
to  each  other,  Demetrius  and  Lysander  left  them,  to  fight  to- 
gether in  the  wood  for  the  love  of  Helena. 

When  they  found  the  gentlemen  had  left  them,  they  departed, 
and  once  more  wandered  weary  in  the  wood  in  search  of  their 
lovers. 

As  soon  as  they  were  gone  the  fairy  king,  who  with  little  Puck 
had  been  listening  to  their  quarrels,  said  to  him,  "This  is  your 
negligence,  Puck;  or  did  you  do  this  wilfully?" 

"Believe  me,  king  of  shadows,"  answered  Puck,  "it  was  a 
mistake.  Did  not  you  tell  me  I  should  know  the  man  by  his 
Athenian  garments  ?  However,  I  am  not  sorry  this  has  happened, 
for  I  think  their  jangling  makes  excellent  sport." 

"You  heard,"  said  Oberon,  "that  Demetrius  and  Lysander 
are  gone  to  seek  a  convenient  place  to  fight  in.  I  command  you 
to  overhang  the  night  with  a  thick  fog,  and  lead  these  quarrel- 
some lovers  so  astray  in  the  dark  that  they  shall  not  be  able  to 
find  each  other.  Counterfeit  each  of  their  voices  to  the  other, 
and  with  bitter  taunts  provoke  them  to  follow  you,  while  they 
think  it  is  their  rival's  tongue  they  hear.  See  you  do  this,  till 
they  are  so  weary  they  can  go  no  farther;  and  when  you  find 
they  are  asleep,  drop  the  juice  of  this  other  flower  into  Lysander's 
eyes,  and  when  he  awakes  he  will  forget  his  new  love  for  Helena, 
and  return  to  his  old  passion  for  Hermia;  and  then  the  two  fair 
ladies  may  each  one  be  happy  with  the  man  she  loves  and  they 
will  think  all  that  has  passed  a  vexatious  dream.     About  this 

[39] 


TALES    FROM 

quickly,  Puck,  and  I  will  go  and  see  what  sweet  love  my  Titania 
has  found." 

Titania  was  still  sleeping,  and  Oberon,  seeing  a  clown  near 
her  who  had  lost  his  way  in  the  wood  and  was  likewise  asleep, 
"This  fellow,"  said  he,  "shall  be  my  Titania's  true  love";  and 
clapping  an  ass's  head  over  the  clown's,  it  seemed  to  fit  him  as 
well  as  if  it  had  grown  upon  his  own  shoulders.  Though  Oberon 
fixed  the  ass's  head  on  very  gently,  it  awakened  him,  and,  rising 
up,  unconscious  of  what  Oberon  had  done  to  him,  he  went 
toward  the  bower  where  the  fairy  queen  slept. 

"Ah!  what  angel  is  that  I  see?"  said  Titania,  opening  her  eyes, 
and  the  juice  of  the  little  purple  flower  beginning  to  take  effect. 
"Are  you  as  wise  as  you  are  beautiful?" 

"Why,  mistress,"  said  the  foolish  clown,  "if  I  have  wit  enough 
to  find  the  way  out  of  this  wood,  I  have  enough  to  serve  my  turn." 

"Out  of  the  wood  do  not  desire  to  go,"  said  the  enamoured 
queen.  "I  am  a  spirit  of  no  common  rate.  I  love  you.  Go 
with  me,  and  I  will  give  you  fairies  to  attend  upon  you." 

She  then  called  four  of  her  fairies.  Their  names  were  Peas- 
blossom,   Cobweb,  Moth,   and  Mustard-seed. 

"Attend,"  said  the  queen,  "upon  this  sweet  gentleman.  Hop 
in  his  walks  and  gambol  in  his  sight;  feed  him  with  grapes  and 
apricots,  and  steal  for  him  the  honey-bags  from  the  bees.  Come, 
sit  with  me,"  said  she  to  the  clown,  "and  let  me  play  with  your 
amiable  hairy  cheeks,  my  beautiful  ass!  and  kiss  your  fair  large 
ears,  my  gentle  joy!" 

"Where  is  Peas-blossom?"  said  the  ass-headed  clown,  not 
much  regarding  the  fairy  queen's  courtship,  but  very  proud  of 
his  new  attendants. 

"Here,  sir,"  said  little  Peas-blossom. 

"Scratch  my  head,"  said  the  clown.    "Where  is  Cobweb?" 

"Here,  sir,"  said  Cobweb. 

"Good  Mr.  Cobweb,"  said  the  foolish  clown,  "kill  me  the  red 
humblebee  on  the  top  of  that  thistle  yonder;  and,  good  Mr. 
Cobweb,  bring  me  the  honey-bag.     Do  not  fret  yourself  too 

[30] 


SHAKESPEARE 

much  in  the  action,  Mr.  Cobweb,  and  take  care  the  honey-bag 
break  not;  I  should  be  sorry  to  have  you  overflown  with  a  honey- 
bag.     Where  is  Mustard-seed?" 

"Here,  sir,"  said  Mustard-seed.     "What  is  your  will?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  clown,  "good  Mr.  Mustard-seed,  but  to 
help  Mr.  Peas-blossom  to  scratch;  I  must  go  to  a  barber's, 
Mr.  Mustard-seed,  for  methinks  I  am  marvelous  hairy  about  the 
face." 

"My  sweet  love,"  said  the  queen,  "what  will  you  have  to 
eat?  I  have  a  venturous  fairy  shall  seek  the  squirrel's  hoard, 
and  fetch  you  some  new  nuts." 

"I  had  rather  have  a  handful  of  dried  peas,"  said  the  clown, 
who  with  his  ass's  head  had  got  an  ass's  appetite.  "But,  I  pray, 
let  none  of  your  people  disturb  me,  for  I  have  a  mind  to  sleep." 

"Sleep,  then,"  said  the  queen,  "and  I  will  wind  you  in  my 
arms.     Oh,  how  I  love  you!  how  I  dote  upon  you!" 

When  the  fairy  king  saw  the  clown  sleeping  in  the  arms  of  his 
queen,  he  advanced  within  her  sight,  and  reproached  her  with 
having  lavished  her  favors  upon  an  ass. 

This  she  could  not  deny,  as  the  clown  was  then  sleeping  within 
her  arms,  with  his  ass's  head  crowned  by  her  with  flowers. 

When  Oberon  had  teased  her  for  some  time,  he  again  demanded 
the  changeling  boy;  which  she,  ashamed  of  being  discovered  by 
her  lord  with  her  new  favorite,  did  not  dare  to  refuse  him. 

Oberon,  having  thus  obtained  the  little  boy  he  had  so  long 
wished  for  to  be  his  page,  took  pity  on  the  disgraceful  situation 
into  which,  by  his  merry  contrivance,  he  had  brought  his  Titania, 
and  threw  some  of  the  juice  of  the  other  flower  into  her  eyes; 
and  the  fairy  queen  immediately  recovered  her  senses,  and 
wondered  at  her  late  dotage,  saying  how  she  now  loathed  the 
sight  of  the  strange  monster. 

Oberon  likewise  took  the  ass's  head  from  off"  the  clown,  and 
left  him  to  finish  his  nap  with  his  own  fool's  head  upon  his 
shoulders. 

Oberon  and  his  Titania  being  now  perfectly  reconciled,  he 

l3i] 


TALES    FROM 

related  to  her  the  history  of  the  lovers  and  their  midnight  quar- 
rels, and  she  agreed  to  go  with  him  and  see  the  end  of  their 
adventures. 

The  fairy  king  and  queen  found  the  lovers  and  their  fair  ladies, 
at  no  great  distance  from  on  a  another,  sleeping  on  a  grass-plot; 


HS 


V. 


«  4    C*r^:> 


-    »' 


^•^S-. 


44 


for  Puck,  to  make  amends  for  his  former  mistake,  had  contrived 
with  the  utmost  diligence  to  bring  them  all  to  the  same  spot, 
unknown  to  one  another;  and  he  had  carefully  removed  the 
charm  from  off  the  eyes  of  Lysander  with  the  antidote  the  fairy 
king  gave  to  him. 

Hermia  first  awoke,  and,  finding  her  lost  Lysander  asleep  so 

[32] 


SHAKESPEARE 

near  her,  was  looking  at  him  and  wondering  at  his  strange  in- 
constancy. Lysander  presently  opening  his  eyes,  and  seeing 
his  dear  Hermia,  recovered  his  reason  which  the  fairy  charm 
had  before  clouded,  and  with  his  reason  his  love  for  Hermia; 
and  they  began  to  talk  over  the  adventures  of  the  night,  doubting 
if  these  things  had  really  happened,  or  if  they  had  both  been 
dreaming  the  same  bewildering  dream. 

Helena  and  Demetrius  were  by  this  time  awake;  and  a  sweet 
sleep  having  quieted  Helena's  disturbed  and  angry  spirits,  she 
listened  with  delight  to  the  professions  of  love  which  Demetrius 
still  made  to  her,  and  which,  to  her  surprise  as  well  as  pleasure, 
she  began  to  perceive  were  sincere. 

These  fair  night-wandering  ladies,  now  no  longer  rivals, 
became  once  more  true  friends;  all  the  unkind  words  which  had 
passed  were  forgiven,  and  they  calmly  consulted  together  what 
was  best  to  be  done  in  their  present  situation.  It  was  soon 
agreed  that,  as  Demetrius  had  given  up  his  pretensions  to  Hermia, 
he  should  endeavor  to  prevail  upon  her  father  to  revoke  the  cruel 
sentence  of  death  which  had  been  passed  against  her.  Demetrius 
was  preparing  to  return  to  Athens  for  this  friendly  purpose, 
when  they  were  surprised  with  the  sight  of  Egeus,  Hermia's 
father,  who  came  to  the  wood  in  pursuit  of  his  runaway  daughter. 

When  Egeus  understood  that  Demetrius  would  not  now  marry 
his  daughter,  he  no  longer  opposed  her  marriage  with  Lysander, 
but  gave  his  consent  that  they  should  be  wedded  on  the  fourth 
day  from  that  time,  being  the  same  day  on  which  Hermia 
had  been  condemned  to  lose  her  life;  and  on  that  same  day 
Helena  joyfully  agreed  to  marry  her  beloved  and  now  faithful 
Demetrius. 

The  fairy  king  and  queen,  who  were  invisible  spectators  of  this 
reconciliation,  and  now  saw  the  happy  ending  of  the  lovers' 
history,  brought  about  through  the  good  offices  of  Oberon, 
received  so  much  pleasure  that  these  kind  spirits  resolved  to 
celebrate  the  approaching  nuptials  with  sports  and  revels  through- 
out their  fairy  kingdom. 
3  [33  1 


TALES    FROM 

And  now,  if  any  are  offended  with  this  story  of  fairies  and  their 
pranks,  as  judging  it  incredible  and  strange,  they  have  only  to 
think  that  they  have  been  asleep  and  dreaming,  and  that  all 
these  adventures  were  visions  which  they  saw  in  their  sleep. 
And  I  hope  none  of  my  readers  will  be  so  unreasonable  as  to 
be  offended  with  a  pretty,  harmless  Midsummer  Night's  Dream. 


SHAKESPEARE 


WINTER'S   TALE 


'EONTES,  King  of  Sicily,  and  his  queen, 
the  beautiful  and  virtuous  Hermione, 
once  lived  in  the  greatest  harmony  to- 
gether. So  happy  was  Leontes  in  the 
love  of  this  excellent  lady  that  he  had 
no  wish  ungratified,  except  that  he  some- 
times desired  to  see  again  and  to  present 
to  his  queen  his  old  companion  and 
schoolfellow,  Polixenes,  King  of  Bohemia. 
Leontes  and  Polixenes  were  brought  up  together  from  their 
infancy,  but  being,  by  the  death  of  their  fathers,  called  to  reign 
over  their  respective  kingdoms,  they  had  not  met  for  many 
years,  though  they  frequently  interchanged  gifts,  letters,  and 
loving  embassies. 

At  length,  after  repeated  invitations,  Polixenes  came  from 
Bohemia  to  the  Sicilian  court,  to  make  his  friend  Leontes  a  visit. 
At  first  this  visit  gave  nothing  but  pleasure  to  Leontes.  He 
recommended  the  friend  of  his  youth  to  the  queen's  particular 
attention,  and  seemed  in  the  presence  of  his  dear  friend  and 
old  companion  to  have  his  felicity  quite  completed.  They  talked 
over  old  times;  their  school-days  and  their  youthful  pranks  were 
remembered,  and  recounted  to  Hermione,  who  always  took  a 
cheerful  part  in  these  conversations. 

When,  after  a  long  stay,  Polixenes  was  preparing  to  depart, 
Hermione,  at  the  desire  of  her  husband,  joined  her  entreaties 
to  his  that  Polixenes  would  prolong  his  visit. 

And  now  began  this  good  queen's  sorrow;  for  Polixenes,  refus- 
ing to  stay  at  the  request  of  Leontes,  was  won  over  by  Hermione's 
gentle  and  persuasive  words  to  put  off  his  departure  for  some 

[3Sl 


TALES    FROM 

weeks  longer.  Upon  this,  although  Leontes  had  so  long  known 
the  integrity  and  honorable  principles  of  his  friend  Polixenes, 
as  well  as  the  excellent  disposition  of  his  virtuous  queen,  he  was 
seized  with  an  ungovernable  jealousy.  Every  attention  Hermione 
showed  to  Polixenes,  though  by  her  husband's  particular  desire 
and  merely  to  please  him,  increased  the  unfortunate  king's 
jealousy;  and  from  being  a  loving  and  a  true  friend,  and  the  best 
and  fondest  of  husbands,  Leontes  became  suddenly  a  savage  and 
inhuman  monster.  Sending  for  Camillo,  one  of  the  lords  of  his 
court,  and  telling  him  of  the  suspicion  he  entertained,  he  com- 
manded him  to  poison  Polixenes. 

Camillo  was  a  good  man,  and  he,  well  knowing  that  the 
jealousy  of  Leontes  had  not  the  slightest  foundation  in  truth, 
instead  of  poisoning  Polixenes,  acquainted  him  with  the  king  his 
master's  orders,  and  agreed  to  escape  with  him  out  of  the  Sicilian 
dominions;  and  Polixenes,  with  the  assistance  of  Camillo,  arrived 
safe  in  his  own  kingdom  of  Bohemia,  where  Camillo  lived  from 
that  time  in  the  king's  court  and  became  the  chief  friend  and 
favorite  of  Polixenes. 

The  flight  of  Polixenes  enraged  the  jealous  Leontes  still  more; 
he  went  to  the  queen's  apartment,  where  the  good  lady  was 
sitting  with  her  little  son  Mamillius,  who  was  just  beginning  to 
tell  one  of  his  best  stories  to  amuse  his  mother,  when  the  king 
entered  and,  taking  the  child  away,  sent  Hermione  to  prison. 

Mamillius,  though  but  a  very  young  child,  loved  his  mother 
tenderly;  and  when  he  saw  her  so  dishonored,  and  found  she  was 
taken  from  him  to  be  put  into  a  prison,  he  took  it  deeply  to 
heart  and  drooped  and  pined  away  by  slow  degrees,  losing  his 
appetite  and  his  sleep,  till  it  was  thought  his  grief  would  kill  him. 

The  king,  when  he  had  sent  his  queen  to  prison,  commanded 
Cleomenes  and  Dion,  two  Sicilian  lords,  to  go  to  Delphos, 
there  to  inquire  of  the  oracle  at  the  temple  of  Apollo  if  his 
queen  had  been  unfaithful  to  him. 

When  Hermione  had  been  a  short  time  in  prison  she  was  brought 
to  bed  of  a  daughter;  and  the  poor  lady  received  much  comfort 

[36] 


IMPLORED  HIM  TO  HAVE  MERCY  ON  HIS  INNOCENT 
WIFE  AND  CHILD 


SHAKESPEARE 

from  the  sight  of  her  pretty  baby,  and  she  said  to  it,  "My  poor 
little  prisoner,  I  am  as  innocent  as  you  are." 

Hermione  had  a  kind  friend  in  the  noble-spirited  Paulina, 
who  was  the  wife  of  Antigonus,  a  Sicilian  lord;  and  when  the 
lady  Paulina  heard  her  royal  mistress  was  brought  to  bed  she 
went  to  the  prison  where  Hermione  was  confined;  and  she  said  to 
Emilia,  a  lady  who  attended  upon  Hermione,  "I  pray  you, 
Emilia,  tell  the  good  queen,  if  her  Majesty  dare  trust  me  with 
her  little  babe,  I  will  carry  it  to  the  king,  its  father:  we  do 
not  know  how  he  may  soften  at  the  sight  of  his  innocent  child." 

"Most  worthy  madam,"  replied  Emilia,  "I  will  acquaint  the 
queen  with  your  noble  offer.  She  was  wishing  to-day  that  she 
had  any  friend  who  would  venture  to  present  the  child  to  the 
king." 

"And  tell  her,"  said  Paulina,  "that  I  will  speak  boldly  to 
Leontes  in  her  defense." 

"May  you  be  forever  blessed,"  said  Emilia,  "for  your  kindness 
to  our  gracious  queen!" 

Emilia  then  went  to  Hermione,  who  joyfully  gave  up  her 
baby  to  the  care  of  Paulina,  for  she  had  feared  that  no  one 
would  dare  venture  to  present  the  child  to  its  father. 

Paulina  took  the  new-born  infant  and,  forcing  herself  into  the 
king's  presence,  notwithstanding  her  husband,  fearing  the  king's 
anger,  endeavored  to  prevent  her,  she  laid  the  babe  at  its  father's 
feet;  and  Paulina  made  a  noble  speech  to  the  king  in  defense 
of  Hermione,  and  she  reproached  him  severely  for  his  inhumanity 
and  implored  him  to  have  mercy  on  his  innocent  wife  and  child. 
But  Paulina's  spirited  remonstrances  only  aggravated  Leontes's 
displeasure,  and  he  ordered  her  husband  Antigonus  to  take  her 
from  his  presence. 

When  Paulina  went  away  she  left  the  little  baby  at  its  father's 
feet,  thinking  when  he  was  alone  with  it  he  would  look  upon  it 
and  have  pity  on  its  helpless  innocence. 

The  good  Paulina  was  mistaken,  for  no  sooner  was  she  gone 
than  the  merciless  father  ordered  Antigonus,  Paulina's  husband, 

[39] 


TA  LE  S    FROM 

to  take  the  child  and  carry  it  out  to  sea  and  leave  it  upon  some 
desert  shore  to  perish. 

Antigonus,  unlike  the  good  Camillo,  too  well  obeyed  the 
orders  of  Leontes;  for  he  immediately  carried  the  child  on  ship- 
board, and  put  out  to  sea,  intending  to  leave  it  on  the  first  desert 
coast  he  could  find. 

So  firmly  was  the  king  persuaded  of  the  guilt  of  Hermione 
that  he  would  not  wait  for  the  return  of  Cleomenes  and  Dion; 
whom  he  had  sent  to  consult  the  oracle  of  Apollo  at  Delphos, 
but  before  the  queen  was  recovered  from  her  lying-in,  and 
from  the  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  precious  baby,  he  had  her  brought 
to  a  public  trial  before  all  the  lords  and  nobles  of  his  court. 
And  when  all  the  great  lords,  the  judges,  and  all  the  nobility  of 
the  land  were  assembled  together  to  try  Hermione,  and  that 
unhappy  queen  was  standing  as  a  prisoner  before  her  subjects 
to  receive  their  judgment,  Cleomenes  and  Dion  entered  the 
assembly  and  presented  to  the  king  the  answer  of  the  oracle, 
sealed  up;  and  Leontes  commanded  the  seal  to  be  broken,  and 
the  words  of  the  oracle  to  be  read  aloud,  and  these  were  the  words: 

"Hermione  is  innocent,  Polixenes  blameless ;  Camillo  a  true 
subject,  Leontes  a  jealous  tyrant,  and  the  king  shall  live  without 
an  heir  if  that  which  is  lost  be  not  found" 

The  king  would  give  no  credit  to  the  words  of  the  oracle.  He 
said  it  was  a  falsehood  invented  by  the  queen's  friends,  and  he 
desired  the  judge  to  proceed  in  the  trial  of  the  queen;  but  while 
Leontes  was  speaking  a  man  entered  and  told  him  that  the  Prince 
Mamillius,  hearing  his  mother  was  to  be  tried  for  her  life,  struck 
with  grief  and  shame,  had  suddenly  died. 

Hermione,  upon  hearing  of  the  death  of  this  dear,  affectionate 
child,  who  had  lost  his  life  in  sorrowing  for  her  misfortune,  fainted; 
and  Leontes,  pierced  to  the  heart  by  the  news,  began  to  feel  pity 
for  his  unhappy  queen,  and  he  ordered  Paulina,  and  the  ladies  who 
were  her  attendants,  to  take  her  away  and  use  means  for  her 
recovery.  Paulina^soon  returned  and  told  the  king  that  Her- 
mione was  dead. 

[40] 


SHAKESPEARE 


When  Leontes  heard  that  the  queen  was  dead  he  repented  of 
his  cruelty  to  her;  and  now  that  he  thought  his  ill-usage  had 
broken  Hermione's  heart,  he  believed  her  innocent;  and  now 
he  thought  the  words  of  the  oracle  were  true,  as  he  knew  "if  that 
which  was  lost 
was  not  found," 
which  he  con- 
cluded was  his 
young  daughter, 
he  should  be  with- 
out an  heir,  the 
young  Princ  e 
Mamillius  being 
dead;  and  he 
would  give  his 
kingdom  now  to 
recover  his  lost 
daughter.  And 
Leontes  gave  him- 
self up  to  remorse 
and  passed  many 
years  in  mournful 
thoughts  and  re- 
pentant grief. 

The  ship  in 
which  Antigonus 
carried  the  infant 
princess  out  to  sea 
was   driven   by  a 

storm  upon  the  coast  of  Bohemia,  the  very  kingdom  of  the  good 
King  Polixenes.  Here  Antigonus  landed  and  here  he  left  the 
little  baby. 

Antigonus  never  returned  to  Sicily  to  tell  Leontes  where 
he  had  left  his  daughter,  for,  as  he  was  going  back  to  the 
ship,  a  bear  came  out  of  the  woods  and  tore  him  to  pieces; 

[41] 


TALES    FROM 

a  just  punishment  on  him  for  obeying  the  wicked  order  of 
Leontes. 

The  child  was  dressed  in  rich  clothes  and  jewels;  for  Hermione 
had  made  it  very  fine  when  she  sent  it  to  Leontes,  and  Antigonus 
had  pinned  a  paper  to  its  mantle,  and  the  name  of  "Perdita" 
written  thereon,  and  words  obscurely  intimating  its  high  birth 
and  untoward  fate. 

This  poor,  deserted  baby  was  found  by  a  shepherd.  He  was 
a  humane  man,  and  so  he  carried  the  little  Perdita  home  to  his 
wife,  who  nursed  it  tenderly.  But  poverty  tempted  the  shepherd 
to  conceal  the  rich  prize  he  had  found;  therefore  he  left  that 
part  of  the  country,  that  no  one  might  know  where  he  got  his 
riches,  and  with  part  of  Perdita's  jewels  he  bought  herds  of 
sheep  and  became  a  wealthy  shepherd.  He  brought  up  Perdita 
as  his  own  child,  and  she  knew  not  she  was  any  other  than  a 
shepherd's  daughter. 

The  little  Perdita  grew  up  a  lovely  maiden;  and  though  she  had 
no  better  education  than  that  of  a  shepherd's  daughter,  yet  so  did 
the  natural  graces  she  inherited  from  her  royal  mother  shine  forth 
in  her  untutored  mind  that  no  one,  from  her  behavior,  would  have 
known  she  had  not  been  brought  up  in  her  father's  court. 

Polixenes,  the  King  of  Bohemia,  had  an  only  son,  whose  name 
was  Florizel.  As  this  young  prince  was  hunting  near  the  shep- 
herd's dwelling  he  saw  the  old  man's  supposed  daughter;  and 
the  beauty,  modesty,  and  queenlike  deportment  of  Perdita 
caused  him  instantly  to  fall  in  love  with  her.  He  soon,  under  the 
name  of  Doricles,  and  in  the  disguise  of  a  private  gentleman, 
became  a  constant  visitor  at  the  old  shepherd's  house.  Florizel's 
frequent  absences  from  court  alarmed  Polixenes;  and  setting 
people  to  watch  his  son,  he  discovered  his  love  for  the  shepherd's 
fair  daughter. 

Polixenes  then  called  for  Camillo,  the  faithful  Camillo,  who 
had  preserved  his  life  from  the  fury  of  Leontes,  and  desired  that 
he  would  accompany  him  to  the  house  of  the  shepherd,  the  sup- 
posed father  of  Perdita. 

[42] 


SHAKESPEARE 


Polixenes  and  Camillo,  both  in  disguise,  arrived  at  the  old 
shepherd's  dwelling  while  they  were  celebrating  the  feast  of 
sheep-shearing;  and  though  they  were  strangers,  yet  at  the 
sheep-shearing,  every  guest 
being  made  welcome,  they 
were  invited  to  walk  in  and 
join  in  the  general  festivity. 

Nothing  but  mirth  and 
jollity  was  going  forward. 
Tables  were  spread  and 
great  preparations  were 
making  for  the  rustic  feast. 
Some  lads  and  lasses  were 
dancing  on  the  green  before 
the  house,  while  others  of 
the  young  men  were  buying 
ribands,  gloves,  and  such 
toys  of  a  peddler  at  the  door. 

While  this  busy  scene 
was  going  forward  Florizel 
and  Perdita  sat  quietly  in 
a  retired  corner,  seemingly 
more  pleased  with  the  con- 
versation of  each  other  than 
desirous  of  engaging  in  the 
sports  and  silly  amusements 
of  those  around  them. 

The  king  was  so  disguised 
that  it  was  impossible  his  son  could  know  him.     He  therefore 
advanced  near  enough  to  hear  the  conversation.     The  simple 
yet  elegant   manner  in  which   Perdita  conversed  with  his  son 
did  not  a  little  surprise  Polixenes.     He  said  to  Camillo: 

"This  is  the  prettiest  low-born  lass  I  ever  saw;  nothing  she 
does  or  says  but  looks  like  something  greater  than  herself,  too 
noble  for  this  place." 

143] 


TALES    FROM 

Camillo  replied,  "Indeed  she  is  the  very  queen  of  curds  and 
cream." 

"Pray,  my  good  friend,"  said  the  king  to  the  old  shepherd, 
"what  fair  swain  is  that  talking  with  your  daughter?" 

"They  call  him  Doricles,"  replied  the  shepherd.  "He  says  he 
loves  my  daughter;  and,  to  speak  truth,  there  is  not  a  kiss  to 
choose  which  loves  the  other  best.  If  young  Doricles  can  get 
her,  she  shall  bring  him  that  he  little  dreams  of,"  meaning  the 
remainder  of  Perdita's  jewels;  which,  after  he  had  bought  herds 
of  sheep  with  part  of  them,  he  had  carefully  hoarded  up  for  her 
marriage  portion. 

Polixenes  then  addressed  his  son.  "How  now,  young  man!" 
said  he.  "Your  heart  seems  full  of  something  that  takes  off 
your  mind  from  feasting.  When  I  was  young  I  used  to  load 
my  love  with  presents;  but  you  have  let  the  peddler  go  and  have 
bought  your  lass  no  toy." 

The  young  prince,  who  little  thought  he  was  talking  to  the 
king  his  father,  replied,  "Old  sir,  she  prizes  not  such  trifles; 
the  gifts  which  Perdita  expects  from  me  are  locked  up  in  my 
heart."  Then  turning  to  Perdita,  he  said  to  her,  "Oh,  hear  me, 
Perdita,  before  this  ancient  gentleman,  who  it  seems  was  once 
himself  a  lover;  he  shall  hear  what  I  profess."  Florizel  then 
called  upon  the  old  stranger  to  be  a  witness  to  a  solemn  promise 
of  marriage  which  he  made  to  Perdita,  saying  to  Polixenes, 
"I  pray  you,  mark  our  contract." 

"Mark  your  divorce,  young  sir,"  said  the  king,  discovering 
himself.  Polixenes  then  reproached  his  son  for  daring  to  con- 
tract himself  to  this  low-born  maiden,  calling  Perdita  "shepherd's 
brat,  sheep-hook,"  and  other  disrespectful  names,  and  threatening 
if  ever  she  suffered  his  son  to  see  her  again,  he  would  put  her,  and 
the  old  shepherd  her  father,  to  a  cruel  death. 

The  king  then  left  them  in  great  wrath,  and  ordered  Camillo 
to  follow  him  with  Prince  Florizel. 

When  the  king  had  departed,  Perdita,  whose  royal  nature 
was  roused  by   Polixenes's  reproaches,  said,  "Though  we  are 

[44] 


SHAKESPEARE 

all  undone,  I  was  not  much  afraid;  and  once  or  twice  I 
was  about  to  speak  and  tell  him  plainly  that  the  selfsame 
sun  which  shines  upon  his  palace  hides  not  his  face  from 
our  cottage,  but  looks  on  both  alike."  Then  sorrowfully 
she  said,  "But  now  I  am  awakened  from  this  dream,  I  will 
queen  it  no  further.  Leave  me,  sir.  I  will  go  milk  my  ewes 
and  weep." 

The  kind-hearted  Camillo  was  charmed  with  the  spirit  and 
propriety  of  Perdita's  behavior;  and,  perceiving  that  the  young 
prince  was  too  deeply  in  love  to  give  up  his  mistress  at  the 
command  of  his  royal  father,  he  thought  of  a  way  to  befriend 
the  lovers  and  at  the  same  time  to  execute  a  favorite  scheme  he 
had  in  his  mind. 

Camillo  had  long  known  that  Leontes,  the  King  of  Sicily,  was 
become  a  true  penitent;  and  though  Camillo  was  now  the 
favored  friend  of  King  Polixenes,  he  could  not  help  wishing  once 
more  to  see  his  late  royal  master  and  his  native  home.  He 
therefore  proposed  to  Florizel  and  Perdita  that  they  should 
accompany  him  to  the  Sicilian  court,  where  he  would  engage 
Leontes  should  protect  them  till,  through  his  mediation,  they 
could  obtain  pardon  from  Polixenes  and  his  consent  to  their 
marriage. 

To  this  proposal  they  joyfully  agreed;  and  Camillo,  who  con- 
ducted everything  relative  to  their  flight,  allowed  the  old  shepherd 
to  go  along  with  them. 

The  shepherd  took  with  him  the  remainder  of  Perdita's  jewels, 
her  baby  clothes,  and  the  paper  which  he  had  found  pinned  to 
her  mantle. 

After  a  prosperous  voyage,  Florizel  and  Perdita,  Camillo  and 
the  old  shepherd,  arrived  in  safety  at  the  court  of  Leontes. 
Leontes,  who  still  mourned  his  dead  Hermione  and  his  lost  child, 
received  Camillo  with  great  kindness  and  gave  a  cordial  welcome 
to  Prince  Florizel.  But  Perdita,  whom  Florizel  introduced  as 
his  princess,  seemed  to  engross  all  Leontes's  attention .  Per- 
ceiving a  resemblance  between  her  and  his  dead  queen  Hermione, 

[451 


TALES    FROM 

his  grief  broke  out  afresh,  and  he  said  such  a  lovely  creature 
might  his  own  daughter  have  been  if  he  had  not  so  cruelly  de- 
stroyed her. 

"And  then,  too,"  said  he  to  Florizel,  "I  lost  the  society  and 
friendship  of  your  brave  father,  whom  I  now  desire  more  than  my 
life  once  again  to  look  upon." 

When  the  old  shepherd  heard  how  much  notice  the  king  had 
taken  of  Perdita,  and  that  he  had  lost  a  daughter  who  was  ex- 
posed in  infancy,  he  fell  to  comparing  the  time  when  he  found 
the  little  Perdita  with  the  manner  of  its  exposure,  the  jewels 
and  other  tokens  of  its  high  birth;  from  all  which  it  was  im- 
possible for  him  not  to  conclude  that  Perdita  and  the  king's  lost 
daughter  were  the  same. 

Florizel  and  Perdita,  Camillo  and  the  faithful  Paulina,  were 
present  when  the  old  shepherd  related  to  the  king  the  manner 
in  which  he  had  found  the  child,  and  also  the  circumstance  of 
Antigonus's  death,  he  having  seen  the  bear  seize  upon  him.  He 
showed  the  rich  mantle  in  which  Paulina  remembered  Hermione 
had  wrapped  the  child;  and  he  produced  a  jewel  which  she 
remembered  Hermione  had  tied  about  Perdita's  neck;  and  he 
gave  up  the  paper  which  Paulina  knew  to  be  the  writing  of  her 
husband.  It  could  not  be  doubted  that  Perdita  was  Leontes's 
own  daughter.  But,  oh,  the  noble  struggles  of  Paulina,  between 
sorrow  for  her  husband's  death  and  joy  that  the  oracle  was 
fulfilled,  in  the  king's  heir,  his  long-lost  daughter  being  found? 
When  Leontes  heard  that  Perdita  was  his  daughter,  the  great 
sorrow  that  he  felt  that  Hermione  was  not  living  to  behold  her 
child  made  him  that  he  could  say  nothing  for  a  long  time  but 
"Oh,  thy  mother,  thy  mother!" 

Paulina  interrupted  this  joyful  yet  distressful  scene  with  saying 
to  Leontes  that  she  had  a  statue  newly  finished  by  that  rare 
Italian  master,  Julio  Romano,  which  was  such  a  perfect  resem- 
blance of  the  queen  that  would  his  Majesty  be  pleased  to  go  to 
her  house  and  look  upon  it,  he  would  be  almost  ready  to  think 
it  was  Hermione  herself.     Thither  then  they  all  went;  the  king 

[46] 


SHAKESPEARE 


anxious  to  see  the  semblance  of  his  Hermione,  and  Perdita  longing 
to  behold  what  the  mother  she  never  saw  did  look  like. 

When  Paulina  drew  back  the  curtain  which  concealed  this 
famous  statue,  so  perfectly  did  it  resemble  Hermione  that  all 
the  king's  sorrow  was  renewed  at 
the  sight;  for  a  long  time  he  had 
no  power  to  speak  or  move. 

"I  like  your  silence,  my  liege," 
said  Paulina;  "it  the  more  shows 
your  wonder.  Is  not  this  statue 
very  like  your  queen?" 

At  length  the  king  said:  "Oh, 
thus  she  stood,  even  with  such 
majesty,  when  I  first  wooed  her. 
But  yet,  Paulina,  Hermione  was 
not  so  aged  as  this  statue  looks." 

Paulina  replied:  "So  much  the 
more  the  carver's  excellence,  who 
has  made  the  statue  as  Hermione 
would  have  looked  had  she  been 
living  now.  But  let  me  draw  the 
curtain,  sire,  lest  presently  you 
think  it  moves." 

The  king  then  said:  "Do  not 
draw  the  curtain.  Would  I  were 
dead!  See,  Camillo,  would  you 
not  think  it  breathed?  Her  eye 
seems  to  have  motion  in  it." 

"I  must  draw  the  curtain,  my  liege,"  said  Paulina.  "You  are 
so  transported,  you  will  persuade  yourself  the  statue  lives." 

"Oh,  sweet  Paulina,"  said  Leontes,  "make  me  think  so  twenty 
years  together!  Still  methinks  there  is  an  air  comes  from  her. 
What  fine  chisel  could  ever  yet  cut  breath?  Let  no  man  mock 
me,  for  I  will  kiss  her." 

"Good  my  lord,  forbear!"  said  Paulina.     "The  ruddiness  upon 

[47] 


TALES    FROM 

her  lip  is  wet;  you  will  stain  your  own  with  oily  painting.  Shall 
I  draw  the  curtain?" 

"No,  not  these  twenty  years,"  said  Leontes. 

Perdita,  who  all  this  time  had  been  kneeling  and  beholding  in 
silent  admiration  the  statue  of  her  matchless  mother,  said  now, 
"And  so  long  could  I  stay  here,  looking  upon  my  dear  mother." 

"Either  forbear  this  transport,"  said  Paulina  to  Leontes,  "and 
let  me  draw  the  curtain  or  prepare  yourself  for  more  amazement. 
I  can  make  the  statue  move  indeed;  aye,  and  descend  from  off 
the  pedestal  and  take  you  by  the  hand.  But  then  you  will 
think,  which  I  protest  I  am  not,  that  I  am  assisted  by  some  wicked 
powers." 

"What  you  can  make  her  do,"  said  the  astonished  king,  "I 
am  content  to  look  upon.  What  you  can  make  her  speak  I  am 
content  to  hear;   for  it  is  as  easy  to  make  her  speak  as  move." 

Paulina  then  ordered  some  slow  and  solemn  music,  which 
she  had  prepared  for  the  purpose,  to  strike  up;  and,  to  the 
amazement  of  all  the  beholders,  the  statue  came  down  from  off  the 
pedestal  and  threw  its  arms  around  Leontes's  neck.  The  statue 
then  began  to  speak,  praying  for  blessings  on  her  husband  and  on 
her  child,  the  newly  found  Perdita. 

No  wonder  that  the  statue  hung  upon  Leontes's  neck  and 
blessed  her  husband  and  her  child.  No  wonder;  for  the  statue 
was  indeed  Hermione  herself,  the  real,  the  living  queen. 

Paulina  had  falsely  reported  to  the  king  the  death  of  Hermione, 
thinking  that  the  only  means  to  preserve  her  royal  mistress's 
life;  and  with  the  good  Paulina  Hermione  had  lived  ever  since, 
never  choosing  Leontes  should  know  she  was  living  till  she  heard 
Perdita  was  found;  for  though  she  had  long  forgiven  the  injuries 
which  Leontes  had  done  to  herself,  she  could  not  pardon  his 
cruelty  to  his  infant  daughter. 

His  dead  queen  thus  restored  to  life,  his  lost  daughter  found, 
the  long-sorrowing  Leontes  could  scarcely  support  the  excess 
of  his  own  happiness. 

Nothing  but  congratulations  and  affectionate  speeches  were 

[48J 


SHAKESPEARE 

heard  on  all  sides.  Now  the  delighted  parents  thanked  Prince 
Florizel  for  loving  their  lowly  seeming  daughter;  and  now  they 
blessed  the  good  old  shepherd  for  preserving  their  child.  Greatly 
did  Camillo  and  Paulina  rejoice  that  they  had  lived  to  see  so  good 
an  end  of  all  their  faithful  services. 

And  as  if  nothing  should  be  wanting  to  complete  this  strange 
and  unlooked-for  joy,  King  Polixenes  himself  now  entered  the 
palace. 

When  Polixenes  first  missed  his  son  and  Camillo,  knowing  that 
Camillo  had  long  wished  to  return  to  Sicily,  he  conjectured  he 
should  find  the  fugitives  here;  and,  following  them  with  all 
speed,  he  happened  to  just  arrive  at  this  the  happiest  moment 
of  Leontes's  life. 

Polixenes  took  a  part  in  the  general  joy;  he  forgave  his  friend 
Leontes  the  unjust  jealousy  he  had  conceived  against  him,  and 
they  once  more  loved  each  other  with  all  the  warmth  of  their 
first  boyish  friendship.  And  there  was  no  fear  that  Polixenes 
would  now  oppose  his  son's  marriage  with  Perdita.  She  was  no 
"sheep-hook"  now,  but  the  heiress  of  the  crown  of  Sicily. 

Thus  have  we  seen  the  patient  virtues  of  the  long-sufFering 
Hermione  rewarded.  That  excellent  lady  lived  many  years  with 
her  Leontes  and  her  Perdita,  the  happiest  of  mothers  and  of 
queens. 

4 


TALES    FROM 


MUCH  ADO  ABOUT  NOTHING 


J  HERE  lived  in  the  palace  at  Messina 
two  ladies,  whose  names  were  Hero  and 
Beatrice.  Hero  was  the  daughter,  and 
Beatrice  the  niece,  of  Leonato,  the  gov- 
ernor of  Messina. 

Beatrice  was  of  a  lively  temper  and 
loved  to  divert  her  cousin  Hero,  who 
was  of  a  more  serious  disposition,  with 
her  sprightly  sallies.  Whatever  was 
going  forward  was  sure  to  make  matter  of  mirth  for  the  light- 
hearted  Beatrice. 

At  the  time  the  history  of  these  ladies  commences  some  young 
men  of  high  rank  in  the  army,  as  they  were  passing  through 
Messina  on  their  return  from  a  war  that  was  just  ended,  in  which 
they  had  distinguished  themselves  by  their  great  bravery,  came 
to  visit  Leonato.  Among  these  were  Don  Pedro,  the  Prince  of 
Arragon,  and  his  friend  Claudio,  who  was  a  lord  of  Florence; 
and  with  them  came  the  wild  and  witty  Benedick,  and  he  was 
a  lord  of  Padua. 

These  strangers  had  been  at  Messina  before,  and  the  hospitable 
governor  introduced  them  to  his  daughter  and  his  niece  as  their 
old  friends  and  acquaintance. 

Benedick,  the  moment  he  entered  the  room,  began  a  lively 
conversation  with  Leonato  and  the  prince.  Beatrice,  who 
liked  not  to  be  left  out  of  any  discourse,  interrupted  Benedick 
with  saying: 

"I  wonder  that  you  will  still  be  talking,  Signor  Benedick. 
Nobody  marks  you." 

Benedick  was  just  such  another  rattlebrain  as  Beatrice,  yet 

[So] 


S  H  AKESPEARE 


he  was  not  pleased  at  this  free  salutation;  he  thought  it  did  not 
become  a  well-bred  lady  to  be  so  flippant  with  her  tongue;  and  he 
remembered,  when  he  was  last  at  Messina,  that  Beatrice  used 
to  select  him  to  make  her  merry  jests  upon.  And  as  there  is  no 
one  who  so  little  likes  to  be  made  a  jest  of  as  those  who  are  apt 
to  take  the  same  liberty  them- 
selves, so  it  was  with  Benedick 
and  Beatrice;  these  two  sharp  wits 
never  met  in  former  times  but  a 
perfect  war  of  raillery  was  kept  up 
between  them,  and  they  always 
parted  mutually  displeased  with 
each  other.  Therefore,  when 
Beatrice  stopped  him  in  the  middle 
of  his  discourse  with  telling  him 
nobody  marked  what  he  was  say- 
ing, Benedick,  affecting  not  to 
have  observed  before  that  she  was 
present,  said: 

"What,  my  dear  Lady  Disdain, 
are  you  yet  living?"  And  now 
war  broke  out  afresh  between 
them,  and  a  long  jangling  argu- 
ment ensued,  during  which 
Beatrice,  although  she  knew  he 
had  so  well  approved  his  valor  in 
the  late  war,  said  that  she  would 
eat  all  he  had  killed  there;  and 
observing  the  prince  take  de- 
light in  Benedick's  conversation,  she  called  him  "the  prince's 
jester."  This  sarcasm  sank  deeper  into  the  mind  of  Benedick 
than  all  Beatrice  had  said  before.  The  hint  she  gave  him  that 
he  was  a  coward,  by  saying  she  would  eat  all  he  had  killed,  he  did 
not  regard,  knowing  himself  to  be  a  brave  man;  but  there  is 
nothing  that  great  wits  so  much  dread  as  the  imputation  of 

[Si] 


TALES    FROM 

buffoonery,  because  the  charge  comes  sometimes  a  little  tool 
near  the  truth;  therefore  Benedick  perfectly  hated  Beatrice; 
when  she  called  him  "the  prince's  jester." 

The  modest  lady  Hero  was  silent  before  the  noble  guests; 
and  while  Claudio  was  attentively  observing  the  improvement 
which  time  had  made  in  her  beauty,  and  was  contemplating  the 
exquisite  graces  of  her  fine  figure  (for  she  was  an  admirable 
young  lady),  the  prince  was  highly  amused  with  listening  to  the 
humorous  dialogue  between  Benedick  and  Beatrice;  and  he  said 
in  a  whisper  to  Leonato: 

"This  is  a  pleasant-spirited  young  lady.  She  were  an  excel- 
lent wife  for  Benedick." 

Leonato  replied  to  this  suggestion,  "O  my  lord,  my  lord,  if 
they  were  but  a  week  married,  they  would  talk  themselves  mad!" 

But  though  Leonato  thought  they  would  make  a  discordant 
pair,  the  prince  did  not  give  up  the  idea  of  matching  these  two 
keen  wits  together. 

When  the  prince  returned  with  Claudio  from  the  palace  he 
found  that  the  marriage  he  had  devised  between  Benedick 
and  Beatrice  was  not  the  only  one  projected  in  that  good  com- 
pany, for  Claudio  spoke  in  such  terms  of  Hero  as  made  the 
prince  guess  at  what  was  passing  in  his  heart;  and  he  liked  it 
well,  and  he  said  to  Claudio: 

"Do  you  affect  Hero?" 

To  this  question  Claudio  replied,  "O  my  lord,  when  I  was 
last  at  Messina  I  looked  upon  her  with  a  soldier's  eye,  that  liked, 
but  had  no  leisure  for  loving;  but  now,  in  this  happy  time  of 
peace,  thoughts  of  war  have  left  their  places  vacant  in  my  mind, 
and  in  their  room  come  thronging  soft  and  delicate  thoughts,  all 
prompting  me  how  fair  young  Hero  is,  reminding  me  that  I 
liked  her  before  I  went  to  the  wars." 

Claudio's  confession  of  his  love  for  Hero  so  wrought  upon  the 
prince  that  he  lost  no  time  in  soliciting  the  consent  of  Leonato 
to  accept  of  Claudio  for  a  son-in-law.  Leonato  agreed  to  this 
proposal,  and  the  prince  found  no  great  difficulty  in  persuading 

15^] 


SHAKESPEARE 

the  gentle  Hero  herself  to  listen  to  the  suit  of  the  noble  Claudio, 
who  was  a  lord  of  rare  endowments  and  highly  accomplished,  and 
Claudio,  assisted  by  his  kind  prince,  soon  prevailed  upon  Leonato 
to  fix  an  early  day  for  the  celebration  of  his  marriage  with  Hero. 

Claudio  was  to  wait  but  a  few  days  before  he  was  to  be  married 
to  his  fair  lady;  yet  he  complained  of  the  interval  being  tedious, 
as  indeed  most  young  men  are  impatient  when  they  are  waiting 
for  the  accomplishment  of  any  event  they  have  set  their  hearts 
upon.  The  prince,  therefore,  to  make  the  time  seem  short  to 
him,  proposed  as  a  kind  of  merry  pastime  that  they  should 
invent  some  artful  scheme  to  make  Benedick  and  Beatrice  fall 
in  love  with  each  other.  Claudio  entered  with  great  satisfaction 
into  this  whim  of  the  prince,  and  Leonato  promised  them  his 
assistance,  and  even  Hero  said  she  would  do  any  modest  office 
to  help  her  cousin  to  a  good  husband. 

The  device  the  prince  invented  was  that  the  gentlemen  should 
make  Benedick  believe  that  Beatrice  was  in  love  with  him,  and 
that  Hero  should  make  Beatrice  believe  that  Benedick  was  in 
love  with  her. 

The  prince,  Leonato,  and  Claudio  began  their  operations  first; 
and  watching  upon  an  opportunity  when  Benedick  was  quietly 
seated  reading  in  an  arbor,  the  prince  and  his  assistants  took 
their  station  among  the  trees  behind  the  arbor,  so  near  that 
Benedick  could  not  choose  but  hear  all  they  said;  and  after  some 
careless  talk  the  prince  said: 

"Come  hither,  Leonato.  What  was  it  you  told  me  the  other 
day — that  your  niece  Beatrice  was  in  love  with  Signor  Benedick? 
I  did  never  think  that  lady  would  have  loved  any  man." 

"No,  nor  I  neither,  my  lord,"  answered  Leonato.  "It  is  most 
wonderful  that  she  should  so  dote  on  Benedick,  whom  she  in  all 
outward  behavior  seemed  ever  to  dislike." 

Claudio  confirmed  all  this  with  saying  that  Hero  had  told  him 
Beatrice  was  so  in  love  with  Benedick  that  she  would  certainly 
die  of  grief  if  he  could  not  be  brought  to  love  her;  which  Leonato 
and  Claudio  seemed  to  agree  was  impossible,  he  having  always 

[53] 


TALES    FROM 

been  such  a  railer  against  all  fair  ladies,  and  in  particular  against 
Beatrice. 

The  prince  affected  to  harken  to  all  this  with  great  compassion 
for  Beatrice,  and  he  said,  "It  were  good  that  Benedick  were  told 
of  this." 

"To  what  end?"  said  Claudio.  "He  would  but  make  sport  of 
it,  and  torment  the  poor  lady  worse." 

"And  if  he  should,"  said  the  prince,  "it  were  a  good  deed  to 
hang  him;  for  Beatrice  is  an  excellent  sweet  lady,  and  exceeding 
wise  in  everything  but  in  loving  Benedick." 

Then  the  prince  motioned  to  his  companions  that  they  should 
walk  on  and  leave  Benedick  to  meditate  upon  what  he  had 
overheard. 

Benedick  had  been  listening  with  great  eagerness  to  this  con- 
versation; and  he  said  to  himself,  when  he  heard  Beatrice  loved 
him:  "Is  it  possible?  Sits  the  wind  in  that  corner?"  And  when 
they  were  gone,  he  began  to  reason  in  this  manner  with  himself: 
"This  can  be  no  trick!  They  were  very  serious,  and  they  have 
the  truth  from  Hero,  and  seem  to  pity  the  lady.  Love  me! 
Why,  it  must  be  requited!  I  did  never  think  to  marry.  But 
when  I  said  I  should  die  a  bachelor,  I  did  not  think  I  should  live 
to  be  married.  They  say  the  lady  is  virtuous  and  fair.  She  is 
so.  And  wise  in  everything  but  loving  me.  Why,  that  is  no 
great  argument  of  her  folly!  But  here  comes  Beatrice.  By  this 
day,  she  is  a  fair  lady.     I  do  spy  some  marks  of  love  in  her." 

Beatrice  now  approached  him  and  said,  with  her  usual  tart- 
ness, "Against  my  will  I  am  sent  to  bid  you  come  in  to  dinner." 

Benedick,  who  never  felt  himself  disposed  to  speak  so  politely 
to  her  before,  replied,  "Fair  Beatrice,  I  thank  you  for  your 
pains."  And  when  Beatrice,  after  two  or  three  more  rude 
speeches,  left  him,  Benedick  thought  he  observed  a  concealed 
meaning  of  kindness  under  the  uncivil  words  she  uttered,  and 
he  said  aloud:  "If  I  do  not  take  pity  on  her,  I  am  a  villain.  If 
I  do  not  love  her,  I  am  a  Jew.     I  will  go  get  her  picture." 

The  gentleman  being  thus  caught  in  the  net  they  had  spread 

[54] 


^        ■  .    Illl  IH  II. 


BUT  ARE  YOU  SURE  THAT  BENEDICK  LOVES 
BEATRICE  SO  ENTIRELY?" 


SHAKESPEARE 

for  him,  it  was  now  Hero's  turn  to  play  her  part  with  Beatrice; 
and  for  this  purpose  she  sent  for  Ursula  and  Margaret,  two 
gentlewomen  who  attended  upon  her,  and  she  said  to  Margaret: 

"Good  Margaret,  run  to  the  parlor;  there  you  will  find  my 
cousin  Beatrice  talking  with  the  prince  and  Claudio.  Whisper 
in  her  ear  that  I  and  Ursula  are  walking  in  the  orchard  and  that 
our  discourse  is  all  of  her.  Bid  her  steal  into  that  pleasant 
arbor,  where  honeysuckles,  ripened  by  the  sun,  like  ungrateful 
minions,  forbid  the  sun  to  enter." 

This  arbor  into  which  Hero  desired  Margaret  to  entice  Beatrice 
was  the  very  same  pleasant  arbor  where  Benedick  had  so  lately 
been  an  attentive  listener. 

"I  will  make  her  come,  I  warrant,  presently,"  said  Margaret. 

Hero,  then  taking  Ursula  with  her  into  the  orchard,  said 
to  her:  "Now,  Ursula,  when  Beatrice  comes,  we  will  walk 
up  and  down  this  alley,  and  our  talk  must  be  only  of  Bene- 
dick, and  when  I  name  him,  let  it  be  your  part  to  praise 
him  more  than  ever  man  did  merit.  My  talk  to  you  must 
be  how  Benedick  is  in  love  with  Beatrice.  Now  begin;  for 
look  where  Beatrice  like  a  lapwing  runs  close  by  the  ground, 
to  hear  our  conference." 

They  then  began,  Hero  saying,  as  if  in  answer  to  something 
which  Ursula  had  said:  "No,  truly,  Ursula.  She  is  too  dis- 
dainful; her  spirits  are  as  coy  as  wild  birds  of  the  rock." 

"But  are  you  sure,"  said  Ursula,  "that  Benedick  loves  Beatrice 
so  entirely?" 

Hero  replied,  "So  says  the  prince  and  my  lord  Claudio,  and  they 
entreated  me  to  acquaint  her  with  it;  but  I  persuaded  them, 
if  they  loved  Benedick,  never  to  let  Beatrice  know  of  it." 

"Certainly,"  replied  Ursula,  "it  were  not  good  she  knew  his 
love,  lest  she  made  sport  of  it." 

"Why,  to  say  truth,"  said  Hero,  "I  never  yet  saw  a  man, 
how  wise  soever,  or  noble,  young,  or  rarely  featured,  but  she 
would  dispraise  him." 

"Sure  sure,  such  carping  is  not  commendable,"  said  Ursula. 

[57] 


TALE  S    FR  O  M 

"No,"  replied  Hero,  "but  who  dare  tell  her  so?  If  I  should 
speak,  she  would  mock  me  into  air." 

"Oh,  you  wrong  your  cousin!"  said  Ursula.  "She  cannot 
be  so  much  without  true  judgment  as  to  refuse  so  rare  a  gentle- 
man as  Signor  Benedick." 

"He  hath  an  excellent  good  name,"  said  Hero.  "Indeed,  he 
is  the  first  man  in  Italy,  always  excepting  my  dear  Claudio." 

And  now,  Hero  giving  her  attendant  a  hint  that  it  was  time  to 
change  the  discourse,  Ursula  said,  "And  when  are  you  to  be 
married,  madam?" 

Hero  then  told  her  that  she  was  to  be  married  to  Claudio 
the  next  day,  and  desired  she  would  go  in  with  her  and  look  at 
some  new  attire,  as  she  wished  to  consult  with  her  on  what  she 
would  wear  on  the  morrow. 

Beatrice,  who  had  been  listening  with  breathless  eagerness 
to  this  dialogue,  when  they  went  away  exclaimed:  "What  fire 
is  in  mine  ears?  Can  this  be  true?  Farewell,  contempt  and 
scorn,  and  maiden  pride,  adieu!  Benedick,  love  on!  I  will 
requite  you,  taming  my  wild  heart  to  your  loving  hand." 

It  must  have  been  a  pleasant  sight  to  see  these  old  enemies 
converted  into  new  and  loving  friends,  and  to  behold  their 
first  meeting  after  being  cheated  into  mutual  liking  by  the  merry 
artifice  of  the  good-humored  prince.  But  a  sad  reverse  in  the 
fortunes  of  Hero  must  now  be  thought  of.  The  morrow,  which 
was  to  have  been  her  wedding-day,  brought  sorrow  on  the  heart 
of  Hero  and  her  good  father,  Leonato. 

The  prince  had  a  half-brother,  who  came  from  the  wars  along 
with  him  to  Messina.  This  brother  (his  name  was  Don  John) 
was  a  melancholy,  discontented  man,  whose  spirits  seemed  to 
labor  in  the  contriving  of  villainies.  He  hated  the  prince  his 
brother,  and  he  hated  Claudio  because  he  was  the  prince's  friend, 
and  determined  to  prevent  Claudio's  marriage  with  Hero,  only 
for  the  malicious  pleasure  of  making  Claudio  and  the  prince 
unhappy,  for  he  knew  the  prince  had  set  his  heart  upon  this 
marriage  almost  as  much  as  Claudio  himself;   and  to  effect  this 

[58] 


SHAKESPEARE 


wicked  purpose  he  employed  one  Borachio,  a  man  as  bad  as 
himself,  whom  he  encouraged  with  the  offer  of  a  great  reward. 
This  Borachio  paid  his  court  to  Margaret,  Hero's  attendant;  and 
Don  John,  knowing  this,  prevailed  upon  him  to  make  Margaret 
promise  to  talk  with  him  from  her  lady's  chamber  window  that 
night,  after  Hero  was  asleep,  and  also  to  dress  herself  in  Hero's 
clothes,  the  better  to  deceive 
Claudio  into  the  belief  that  it 
was  Hero;  for  that  was  the  end 
he  meant  to  compass  by  this 
wicked  plot. 

Don  John  then  went  to  the 
prince  and  Claudio  and  told 
them  that  Hero  was  an  impru- 
dent lady,  and  that  she  talked 
with  men  from  her  chamber 
window  at  midnight.  Now  this 
was  the  evening  before  the  wed- 
ding, and  he  offered  to  take  them 
that  night  where  they  should 
themselves  hear  Hero  discoursing 
with  a  man  from  her  window; 
and  they  consented  to  go  along 
with  him,  and  Claudio  said: 

"If  I   see   anything   to-night 
why  I  should   not   marry  her,  to-morrow  in  the  congregation, 
where  I  intended  to  wed  her,  there  will  I  shame  her." 

The  prince  also  said,  "And  as  I  assisted  you  to  obtain  her,  I 
will  join  with  you  to  disgrace  her." 

When  Don  John  brought  them  near  Hero's  chamber  that 
night,  they  saw  Borachio  standing  under  the  window,  and  they 
saw  Margaret  looking  out  of  Hero's  window  and  heard  her 
talking  with  Borachio;  and  Margaret  being  dressed  in  the  same 
clothes  they  had  seen  Hero  wear,  the  prince  and  Claudio  believed 
it  was  the  lady  Hero  herself. 

[59] 


TALES    FROM 

Nothing  could  equal  the  anger  of  Claudio  when  he  had  made 
(as  he  thought)  this  discovery.  All  his  love  for  the  innocent 
Hero  was  at  once  converted  into  hatred,  and  he  resolved  to 
expose  her  in  the  church,  as  he  had  said  he  would,  the  next  day; 
and  the  prince  agreed  to  this,  thinking  no  punishment  could  be 
too  severe  for  the  naughty  lady  who  talked  with  a  man  from  her 
window  the  very  night  before  she  was  going  to  be  married  to  the 
noble  Claudio. 

The  next  day,  when  they  were  all  met  to  celebrate  the  marriage, 
and  Claudio  and  Hero  were  standing  before  the  priest,  and  the 
priest,  or  friar,  as  he  was  called,  was  proceeding  to  pronounce 
the  marriage  ceremony,  Claudio,  in  the  most  passionate  language, 
proclaimed  the  guilt  of  the  blameless  Hero,  who,  amazed  at  the 
strange  words  he  uttered,  said,  meekly: 

"Is  my  lord  well,  that  he  does  speak  so  wide?" 

Leonato,  in  the  utmost  horror,  said  to  the  prince,  "My  lord, 
why  speak  not  you?" 

"What  should  I  speak?"  said  the  prince.  "I  stand  dishonored 
that  have  gone  about  to  link  my  dear  friend  to  an  unworthy 
woman.  Leonato,  upon  my  honor,  myself,  my  brother,  and  this 
grieved  Claudio  did  see  and  hear  her  last  night  at  midnight 
talk  with  a  man  at  her  chamber  window." 

Benedick,  in  astonishment  at  what  he  heard,  said,  "This  looks 
not  like  a  nuptial." 

"True,  O  God!"  replied  the  heart-struck  Hero;  and  then  this 
hapless  lady  sank  down  in  a  fainting  fit,  to  all  appearance  dead. 

The  prince  and  Claudio  left  the  church  without  staying  to  see 
if  Hero  would  recover,  or  at  all  regarding  the  distress  into  which 
they  had  thrown  Leonato.  So  hard-hearted  had  their  anger 
made  them. 

Benedick  remained  and  assisted  Beatrice  to  recover  Hero  from 
her  swoon,  saying,  "How  does  the  lady?" 

"Dead,  I  think,"  replied  Beatrice,  in  great  agony,  for  she 
loved  her  cousin;  and,  knowing  her  virtuous  principles,  she 
believed  nothing  of  what  she  had  heard  spoken  against  her. 

[60] 


SHAKESPEARE 


Not  so  the  poor  old  father.  He  believed  the  story  of  his  child's 
shame,  and  it  was  piteous  to  hear  him  lamenting  over  her,  as 
she  lay  like  one  dead  before  him,  wishing  she  might  never  more 
open  her  eyes. 

But  the  ancient  friar  was  a  wise  man  and  full  of  observation 
on  human  nature,  and  he  had  attentively  marked  the  lady's 
countenance  when  she 
heard  herself   accused  {Jfu 

and  noted  a  thousand 
blushing  shames  to 
start  into  her  face,  and 
then  he  saw  an  angel- 
like whiteness  bear 
away  those  blushes, 
and  in  her  eye  he  saw 
a  fire  that  did  belie 
the  error  that  the 
prince  did  speak 
against  her  maiden 
truth,  and  he  said  to 
the  sorrowing  father: 

"Call  me  a  fool; 
trust  not  my  reading 
nor  my  observation; 
trust  not  my  age,  my 
reverence,  nor  my  call- 
ing, if  this  sweet  lady 
lie  not  guiltless  here 
under  some  biting 
error." 

When  Hero  had  re- 
covered from  the  swoon  into  which   she  had   fallen,  the  friar 
said  to  her,  "Lady,  what  man  is  he  you  are  accused  of?" 

Hero  replied,  "They  know  that  do  accuse  me;  I  know  of  none." 
Then  turning  to  Leonato,  she  said,  "O  my  father,  if  you  can 

[61] 


TALES    FROM 

prove  that  any  man  has  ever  conversed  with  me  at  hours  unmeet, 
or  that  I  yesternight  changed  words  with  any  creature,  refuse  me, 
hate  me,  torture  me  to  death." 

"There  is,"  said  the  friar,  "some  strange  misunderstanding 
in  the  prince  and  Claudio."  And  then  he  counseled  Leonato 
that  he  should  report  that  Hero  was  dead;  and  he  said  that  the 
deathlike  swoon  in  which  they  had  left  Hero  would  make  this 
easy  of  belief;  and  he  also  advised  him  that  he  should  put  on 
mourning,  and  erect  a  monument  for  her,  and  do  all  rites  that 
appertain  to  a  burial. 

"What  shall  become  of  this?"  said  Leonato.  "What  will  this 
do?" 

The  friar  replied:  "This  report  of  her  death  shall  change  slander 
into  pity;  that  is  some  good.  But  that  is  not  all  the  good  I  hope 
for.  When  Claudio  shall  hear  she  died  upon  hearing  his  words, 
the  idea  of  her  life  shall  sweetly  creep  into  his  imagination. 
Then  shall  he  mourn,  if  ever  love  had  interest  in  his  heart,  and 
wish  that  he  had  not  so  accused  her;  yea,  though  he  thought  his 
accusation  true." 

Benedick  now  said,  "Leonato,  let  the  friar  advise  you;  and 
though  you  know  how  well  I  love  the  prince  and  Claudio,  yet 
on  my  honor  I  will  not  reveal  this  secret  to  them." 

Leonato,  thus  persuaded,  yielded;  and  he  said,  sorrowfully, 
"I  am  so  grieved  that  the  smallest  twine  may  lead  me." 

The  kind  friar  then  led  Leonato  and  Hero  away  to  comfort 
and  console  them,  and  Beatrice  and  Benedick  remained  alone; 
and  this  was  the  meeting  from  which  their  friends,  who  contrived 
the  merry  plot  against  them,  expected  so  much  diversion;  those 
friends  who  were  now  overwhelmed  with  affliction  and  from 
whose  minds  all  thoughts  of  merriment  seemed  forever  banished. 

Benedick  was  the  first  who  spoke,  and  he  said,  "Lady  Beatrice, 
have  you  wept  all  this  while?" 

"Yea,  and  I  will  weep  awhile  longer,"  said  Beatrice. 

"Surely,"  said  Benedick,  "I  do  believe  your  fair  cousin  is 
wronged." 

[62] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"Ah,"  said  Beatrice,  "how  much  might  that  man  deserve  of 
me  who  would  right  her!" 

Benedick  then  said:  "Is  there  any  way  to  show  such  friend- 
ship ?  I  do  love  nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you.  Is  not  that 
strange?" 

"It  were  as  possible,"  said  Beatrice,  "for  me  to  say  I  loved 
nothing  in  the  world  so  well  as  you;  but  believe  me  not,  and 
yet  I  He  not.  I  confess  nothing,  nor  I  deny  nothing.  I  am  sorry 
for  my  cousin." 

"By  my  sword,"  said  Benedick,  "you  love  me,  and  I  protest 
I  love  you.     Come,  bid  me  do  anything  for  you." 

"Kill  Claudio,"  said  Beatrice. 

"Ha!  not  for  the  world,"  said  Benedick;  for  he  loved  his 
friend  Claudio  and  he  believed  he  had  been  imposed  upon. 

"Is  not  Claudio  a  villain  that  has  slandered,  scorned,  and 
dishonored  my  cousin?"  said  Beatrice.  "Oh,  that  I  were  a 
man! 

"Hear  me,  Beatrice!"  said  Benedick. 

But  Beatrice  would  hear  nothing  in  Claudio's  defense,  and  she 
continued  to  urge  on  Benedick  to  revenge  her  cousin's  wrongs; 
and  she  said:  "Talk  with  a  man  out  of  the  window?  a  proper 
saying!  Sweet  Hero!  she  is  wronged;  she  is  slandered;  she  is 
undone.  Oh,  that  I  were  a  man  for  Claudio's  sake!  or  that  I 
had  any  friend  who  would  be  a  man  for  my  sake!  But  valor  is 
melted  into  courtesies  and  compliments.  I  cannot  be  a  man 
with  wishing,  therefore  I  will  die  a  woman  with  grieving." 

"Tarry,  good  Beatrice,"  said  Benedick.  "By  this  hand  I 
love  you." 

"Use  it  for  my  love  some  other  way  than  swearing  by  it,"  said 
Beatrice. 

"Think  you  on  your  soul  that  Claudio  has  wronged  Hero?" 
asked  Benedick. 

"Yea,"  answered  Beatrice;  "as  sure  as  I  have  a  thought  or  a 
soul. 

"Enough,"  said  Benedick.     "I  am  engaged;   I  will  challenge 

[63  1 


TALES    FROM 

him.  I  will  kiss  your  hand,  and  so  leave  you.  By  this  hand 
Claudio  shall  render  me  a  dear  account!  As  you  hear  from  me, 
so  think  of  me.     Go,  comfort  your  cousin." 

While  Beatrice  was  thus  powerfully  pleading  with  Benedick, 
and  working  his  gallant  temper,  by  the  spirit  of  her  angry  words, 
to  engage  in  the  cause  of  Hero  and  fight  even  with  his  dear 
friend  Claudio,  Leonato  was  challenging  the  prince  and  Claudio 
to  answer  with  their  swords  the  injury  they  had  done  his  child, 
who,  he  affirmed,  had  died  for  grief.  But  they  respected  his 
age  and  his  sorrow,  and  they  said: 

"Nay,  do  not  quarrel  with  us,  good  old  man." 

And  now  came  Benedick,  and  he  also  challenged  Claudio  to 
answer  with  his  sword  the  injury  he  had  done  to  Hero;  and 
Claudio  and  the  prince  said  to  each  other: 

"Beatrice  has  set  him  on  to  do  this." 

Claudio,  nevertheless,  must  have  accepted  this  challenge  of 
Benedick  had  not  the  justice  of  Heaven  at  the  moment  brought 
to  pass  a  better  proof  of  the  innocence  of  Hero  than  the  uncertain 
fortune  of  a  duel. 

While  the  prince  and  Claudio  were  yet  talking  of  the  challenge 
of  Benedick  a  magistrate  brought  Borachio  as  a  prisoner  before 
the  prince.  Borachio  had  been  overheard  talking  with  one  of  his 
companions  of  the  mischief  he  had  been  employed  by  Don  John 
to  do. 

Borachio  made  a  full  confession  to  the  prince  in  Claudio's 
hearing  that  it  was  Margaret  dressed  in  her  lady's  clothes  that 
he  had  talked  with  from  the  window,  whom  they  had  mistaken 
for  the  lady  Hero  herself;  and  no  doubt  continued  on  the  minds 
of  Claudio  and  the  prince  of  the  innocence  of  Hero.  If  a  sus- 
picion had  remained  it  must  have  been  removed  by  the  flight  of 
Don  John,  who,  finding  his  villainies  were  detected,  fled  from 
Messina  to  avoid  the  just  anger  of  his  brother. 

The  heart  of  Claudio  was  sorely  grieved  when  he  found  he  had 
falsely  accused  Hero,  who,  he  thought,  died  upon  hearing  his 
cruel  words;    and  the  memory  of  his  beloved  Hero's  image 

[64] 


SHAKESPEARE 

came  over  him  in  the  rare  semblance  that  he  loved  it  first;  and 
the  prince,  asking  him  if  what  he  heard  did  not  run  like  iron 
through  his  soul,  he  answered  that  he  felt  as  if  he  had  taken  poison 
while  Borachio  was  speaking. 

And  the  repentant  Claudio  implored  forgiveness  of  the  old 
man  Leonato  for  the  injury  he  had  done  his  child;  and  promised 
that,  whatever  penance  Leonato  would  lay  upon  him  for  his 
fault  in  believing  the  false  accusation  against  his  betrothed  wife, 
for  her  dear  sake  he  would  endure  it. 

The  penance  Leonato  enjoined  him  was  to  marry  the  next 
morning  a  cousin  of  Hero's,  who,  he  said,  was  now  his  heir,  and 
in  person  very  like  Hero.  Claudio,  regarding  the  solemn  promise 
he  made  to  Leonato,  said  he  would  marry  this  unknown  lady, 
even  though  she  were  an  Ethiop.  But  his  heart  was  very  sor- 
rowful, and  he  passed  that  night  in  tears  and  in  remorseful  grief 
at  the  tomb  which  Leonato  had  erected  for  Hero. 

When  the  morning  came  the  prince  accompanied  Claudio  to 
the  church,  where  the  good  friar  and  Leonato  and  his  niece  were 
already  assembled,  to  celebrate  a  second  nuptial;  and  Leonato 
presented  to  Claudio  his  promised  bride.  And  she  wore  a  mask, 
that  Claudio  might  not  discover  her  face.  And  Claudio  said  to 
the  lady  in  the  mask: 

"Give  me  your  hand,  before  this  holy  friar.  I  am  your  hus- 
band, if  you  will  marry  me." 

"And  when  I  lived  I  was  your  other  wife,"  said  this  unknown 
lady;  and,  taking  off  her  mask,  she  proved  to  be  no  niece  (as 
was  pretended),  but  Leonato's  very  daughter,  the  lady  Hero 
herself.  We  may  be  sure  that  this  proved  a  most  agreeable  sur- 
prise to  Claudio,  who  thought  her  dead,  so  that  he  could  scarcely 
for  joy  believe  his  eyes;  and  the  prince,  who  was  equally  amazed 
at  what  he  saw,  exclaimed: 

"Is  not  this  Hero,  Hero  that  was  dead?" 

Leonato  replied,  "She  died,  my  lord,  but  while  her  slander 
lived." 

The  friar  promised  them  an  explanation  of  this  seeming  miracle, 

5  [65] 


TALES    FROM 

after  the  ceremony  was  ended,  and  was  proceeding  to  marry  them 
when  he  was  interrupted  by  Benedick,  who  desired  to  be  married 
at  the  same  time  to  Beatrice.  Beatrice  making  some  demur  to 
this  match,  and  Benedick  challenging  her  with  her  love  for  him, 
which  he  had  learned  from  Hero,  a  pleasant  explanation  took 
place;  and  they  found  they  had  both  been  tricked  into  a  belief 
of  love,  which  had  never  existed,  and  had  become  lovers  in  truth 
by  the  power  of  a  false  jest.  But  the  affection  which  a  merry 
invention  had  cheated  them  into  was  grown  too  powerful  to  be 
shaken  by  a  serious  explanation;  and  since  Benedick  proposed  to 
marry,  he  was  resolved  to  think  nothing  to  the  purpose  that  the 
world  could  say  against  it;  and  he  merrily  kept  up  the  jest  and 
swore  to  Beatrice  that  he  took  her  but  for  pity,  and  because  he 
heard  she  was  dying  of  love  for  him;  and  Beatrice  protested  that 
she  yielded  but  upon  great  persuasion,  and  partly  to  save  his  life, 
for  she  heard  he  was  in  a  consumption.  So  these  two  mad  wits 
were  reconciled  and  made  a  match  of  it,  after  Claudio  and  Hero 
were  married;  and  to  complete  the  history,  Don  John,  the  con- 
triver of  the  villainy,  was  taken  in  his  flight  and  brought  back 
to  Messina;  and  a  brave  punishment  it  was  to  this  gloomy,  dis- 
contented man  to  see  the  joy  and  feastings  which,  by  the  disap- 
pointment of  his  plots,  took  place  in  the  palace  in  Messina. 


SHAKESPEARE 


AS  YOU  LIKE  IT 


URING  the  time  that  France  was  divided 
into  provinces  (or  dukedoms,  as  they 
were  called)  there  reigned  in  one  of  these 
provinces  a  usurper  who  had  deposed 
and  banished  his  elder  brother,  the  law- 
ful duke. 

The  duke  who  was  thus  driven  from 
his  dominions  retired  with  a  few  faithful 
followers  to  the  forest  of  Arden;  and 
here  the  good  duke  lived  with  his  loving  friends,  who  had  put 
themselves  into  a  voluntary  exile  for  his  sake,  while  their  land  and 
revenues  enriched  the  false  usurper;  and  custom  soon  made  the  life 
of  careless  ease  they  led  here  more  sweet  to  them  than  the  pomp 
and  uneasy  splendor  of  a  courtier's  life.  Here  they  lived  like 
the  old  Robin  Hood  of  England,  and  to  this  forest  many  noble 
youths  daily  resorted  from  the  court,  and  did  fleet  the  time  care- 
lessly, as  they  did  who  lived  in  the  golden  age.  In  the  summer 
they  lay  along  under  the  fine  shade  of  the  large  forest  trees, 
marking  the  playful  sports  of  the  wild  deer;  and  so  fond  were 
they  of  these  poor  dappled  fools,  who  seemed  to  be  the  native 
inhabitants  of  the  forest,  that  it  grieved  them  to  be  forced  to  kill 
them  to  supply  themselves  with  venison  for  their  food.  When 
the  cold  winds  of  winter  made  the  duke  feel  the  change  of  his 
adverse  fortune,  he  would  endure  it  patiently,  and  say: 

"These  chilling  winds  which  blow  upon  my  body  are  true 
counselors;  they  do  not  flatter,  but  represent  truly  to  me  my 
condition;  and  though  they  bite  sharply,  their  tooth  is  nothing 
like  so  keen  as  that  of  unkindness  and  ingratitude.  I  find  that 
howsoever  men  speak  against  adversity,  yet  some  sweet  uses  are 

[67] 


TALES    FROM 

to  be  extracted  from  it;  like  the  jewel,  precious  for  medicine, 
which  is  taken  from  the  head  of  the  venomous  and  despised  toad.'* 

In  this  manner  did  the  patient  duke  draw  a  useful  moral  from 
everything  that  he  saw;  and  by  the  help  of  this  moralizing  turn, 
in  that  life  of  his,  remote  from  public  haunts,  he  could  find 
tongues  in  trees,  books  in  the  running  brooks,  sermons  in  stones, 
and  good  in  everything. 

The  banished  duke  had  an  only  daughter,  named  Rosalind, 
whom  the  usurper,  Duke  Frederick,  when  he  banished  her  father, 
still  retained  in  his  court  as  a  companion  for  his  own  daughter, 
Celia.  A  strict  friendship  subsisted  between  these  ladies,  which 
the  disagreement  between  their  fathers  did  not  in  the  least  in- 
terrupt, Celia  striving  by  every  kindness  in  her  power  to  make 
amends  to  Rosalind  for  the  injustice  of  her  own  father  in  deposing 
the  father  of  Rosalind;  and  whenever  the  thoughts  of  her  father's 
banishment,  and  her  own  dependence  on  the  false  usurper,  made 
Rosalind  melancholy,  Celia's  whole  care  was  to  comfort  and 
console  her. 

One  day,  when  Celia  was  talking  in  her  usual  kind  manner  to 
Rosalind,  saying,  "I  pray  you,  Rosalind,  my  sweet  cousin,  be 
merry,"  a  messenger  entered  from  the  duke,  to  tell  them  that 
if  they  wished  to  see  a  wrestling-match,  which  was  just  going  to 
begin,  they  must  come  instantly  to  the  court  before  the  palace; 
and  Celia,  thinking  it  would  amuse  Rosalind,  agreed  to  go  and 
see  it. 

In  those  times  wrestling,  which  is  only  practised  now  by 
country  clowns,  was  a  favorite  sport  even  in  the  courts  of  princes, 
and  before  fair  ladies  and  princesses.  To  this  wrestling-match, 
therefore,  Celia  and  Rosalind  went.  They  found  that  it  was 
likely  to  prove  a  very  tragical  sight;  for  a  large  and  powerful 
man,  who  had  been  long  practised  in  the  art  of  wrestling  and  had 
slain  many  men  in  contests  of  this  kind,  was  just  going  to  wrestle 
with  a  very  young  man,  who,  from  his  extreme  youth  and  in- 
experience in  the  art,  the  beholders  all  thought  would  certainly 

be  killed. 

[681 


SHAKESPEARE 

When  the  duke  saw  Celia  and  Rosalind  he  said:  "How  now, 
daughter  and  niece,  are  you  crept  hither  to  see  the  wrestling? 
You  will  take  little  delight  in  it,  there  is  such  odds  in  the  men. 
In  pity  to  this  young  man,  I  would  wish  to  persuade  him  from 
wrestling.     Speak  to  him,  ladies,  and  see  if  you  can  move  him." 

The  ladies  were  well  pleased  to  perform  this  humane  office, 
and  first  Celia  entreated  the  young  stranger  that  he  would  desist 
from  the  attempt;  and  then  Rosalind  spoke  so  kindly  to  him, 
and  with  such  feeling  consideration  for  the  danger  he  was  about 
to  undergo,  that,  instead  of  being  persuaded  by  her  gentle  words 
to  forego  his  purpose,  all  his  thoughts  were  bent  to  distinguish 
himself  by  his  courage  in  this  lovely  lady's  eyes.  He  refused  the 
request  of  Celia  and  Rosalind  in  such  graceful  and  modest  words 
that  they  felt  still  more  concern  for  him;  he  concluded  his  refusal 
with  saying: 

"I  am  sorry  to  deny  such  fair  and  excellent  ladies  anything. 
But  let  your  fair  eyes  and  gentle  wishes  go  with  me  to  my  trial, 
wherein  if  I  be  conquered  there  is  one  shamed  that  was  never 
gracious;  if  I  am  killed,  there  is  one  dead  that  is  willing  to  die.  I 
shall  do  my  friends  no  wrong,  for  I  have  none  to  lament  me; 
the  world  no  injury,  for  in  it  I  have  nothing;  for  I  only  fill  up  a 
place  in  the  world  which  may  be  better  supplied  when  I  have 
made  it  empty." 

And  now  the  wrestling-match  began.  Celia  wished  the  young 
stranger  might  not  be  hurt;  but  Rosalind  felt  most  for  him. 
The  friendless  state  which  he  said  he  was  in,  and  that  he  wished 
to  die,  made  Rosalind  think  that  he  was,  like  herself,  unfortunate; 
and  she  pitied  him  so  much,  and  so  deep  an  interest  she  took  in 
his  danger  while  he  was  wrestling,  that  she  might  almost  be  said 
at  that  moment  to  have  fallen  in  love  with  him. 

The  kindness  shown  this  unknown  youth  by  these  fair  and 
noble  ladies  gave  him  courage  and  strength,  so  that  he  performed 
wonders;  and  in  the  end  completely  conquered  his  antagonist, 
who  was  so  much  hurt  that  for  a  while  he  was  unable  to  speak  or 
move. 

[69] 


TALES    FROM 

The  Duke  Frederick  was  much  pleased  with  the  courage  and 
skill  shown  by  this  young  stranger;  and  desired  to  know  his 
name  and  parentage,  meaning  to  take  him  under  his  protection. 

The  stranger  said  his  name  was  Orlando,  and  that  he  was  the 
youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys. 

Sir  Rowland  de  Boys,  the  father  of  Orlando,  had  been  dead 
some  years;  but  when  he  was  living  he  had  been  a  true  subject 
and  dear  friend  of  the  banished  duke;  therefore,  when  Frederick 
heard  Orlando  was  the  son  of  his  banished  brother's  friend,  all 
his  liking  for  this  brave  young  man  was  changed  into  displeasure 
and  he  left  the  place  in  very  ill  humor.  Hating  to  hear  the  very 
name  of  any  of  his  brother's  friends,  and  yet  still  admiring  the 
valor  of  the  youth,  he  said,  as  he  went  out,  that  he  wished  Orlando 
had  been  the  son  of  any  other  man. 

Rosalind  was  delighted  to  hear  that  her  new  favorite  was  the 
son  of  her  father's  old  friend;  and  she  said  to  Celia,  "My  father 
loved  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys,  and  if  I  had  known  this  young  man 
was  his  son  I  would  have  added  tears  to  my  entreaties  before  he 
should  have  ventured." 

The  ladies  then  went  up  to  him  and,  seeing  him  abashed  by 
the  sudden  displeasure  shown  by  the  duke,  they  spoke  kind  and 
encouraging  words  to  him;  and  Rosalind,  when  they  were  going 
away,  turned  back  to  speak  some  more  civil  things  to  the  brave 
young  son  of  her  father's  old  friend,  and  taking  a  chain  from  off 
her  neck,  she  said: 

"Gentleman,  wear  this  for  me.  I  am  out  of  suits  with  fortune, 
or  I  would  give  you  a  more  valuable  present." 

When  the  ladies  were  alone,  Rosalind's  talk  being  still  of 
Orlando,  Celia  began  to  perceive  her  cousin  had  fallen  in  love 
with  the  handsome  young  wrestler,  and  she  said  to  Rosalind: 

"Is  it  possible  you  should  fall  in  love  so  suddenly?" 

Rosalind  replied,  "The  duke,  my  father,  loved  his  father  dearly." 

"But,"  said  Celia,  "does  it  therefore  follow  that  you  should 
love  his  son  dearly?  For  then  I  ought  to  hate  him,  for  my 
father  hated  his  father;  yet  I  do  not  hate  Orlando." 

[7o] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Frederick,  being  enraged  at  the  sight  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys's 
son,  which  reminded  him  of  the  many  friends  the  banished  duke 
had  among  the  nobility,  and  having  been  for  some  time  displeased 
with  his  niece  because  the  people  praised  her  for  her  virtues 
and  pitied  her  for  her  good  a 

father's  sake,  his  malice  sud-  .^'^v^rtSi; 

denly  broke  out  against  her; 
and  while  Celia  and  Rosalind 
were  talking  of  Orlando, 
Frederick  entered  the  room 
and  with  looks  full  of  anger 
ordered  Rosalind  instantly  to 
leave  the  palace  and  follow 
her  father  into  banishment, 
telling  Celia,  who  in  vain 
pleaded  for  her,  that  he  had 
only  suffered  Rosalind  to  stay 
upon  her  account. 

"I  did  not  then,"  said  Celia, 
"entreat  you  to  let  her  stay, 
for  I  was  too  young  at  that 
time  to  value  her;  but  now 
that  I  know  her  worth,  and 
that  we  so  long  have  slept  to- 
gether, rose  at  the  same  in- 
stant, learned,  played,  and  eat 
together,  I  cannot  live  out  of 
her  company." 

Frederick  replied :  "She  is  too  subtle  for  you;  her  smoothness, 
her  very  silence,  and  her  patience  speak  to  the  people,  and  they 
pity  her.  You  are  a  fool  to  plead  for  her,  for  you  will  seem  more 
bright  and  virtuous  when  she  is  gone;  therefore  open  not  your 
lips  in  her  favor,  for  the  doom  which  I  have  passed  upon  her  is 
irrevocable." 

When  Celia  found  she  could  not  prevail  upon  her  father  to  let 

[7iJ 


6* 


TALES    FROM 

Rosalind  remain  with  her,  she  generously  resolved  t<  ccompany 
her;  and,  leaving  her  father's  palace  that  night,  she  went  along 
with  her  friend  to  seek  Rosalind's  father,  the  banished  duke,  in  the 
forest  of  Arden. 

Before  they  set  out  Celia  considered  that  it  would  be  unsafe 
for  two  young  ladies  to  travel  in  the  rich  clothes  they  then  wore; 
she  therefore  proposed  that  they  should  disguise  their  rank  by 
dressing  themselves  like  country  maids.  Rosalind  said  it  would 
be  a  still  greater  protection  if  one  of  them  was  to  be  dressed  like 
a  man.  And  so  it  was  quickly  agreed  on  between  them  that,  as 
Rosalind  was  the  tallest,  she  should  wear  the  dress  of  a  young 
countryman,  and  Celia  should  be  habited  like  a  country  lass,  and 
that  they  should  say  they  were  brother  and  sister;  and  Rosalind 
said  she  would  be  called  Ganymede,  and  Celia  chose  the  name 
of  Aliena. 

In  this  disguise,  and  taking  their  money  and  jewels  to  defray 
their  expenses,  these  fair  princesses  set  out  on  their  long  travel; 
for  the  forest  of  Arden  was  a  long  way  off,  beyond  the  boundaries 
of  the  duke's  dominions. 

The  lady  Rosalind  (or  Ganymede,  as  she  must  now  be  called) 
with  her  manly  garb  seemed  to  have  put  on  a  manly  courage. 
The  faithful  friendship  Celia  had  shown  in  accompanying  Rosa- 
lind so  many  weary  miles  made  the  new  brother,  in  recompense 
for  this  true  love,  exert  a  cheerful  spirit,  as  if  he  were  indeed 
Ganymede,  the  rustic  and  stout-hearted  brother  of  the  gentle 
village  maiden,  Aliena. 

When  at  last  they  came  to  the  forest  of  Arden  they  no  longer 
found  the  convenient  inns  and  good  accommodations  they  had 
met  with  on  the  road,  and,  being  in  want  of  food  and  rest,  Gany- 
mede, who  had  so  merrily  cheered  his  sister  with  pleasant  speeches 
and  happy  remarks  all  the  way,  now  owned  to  Aliena  that  he 
was  so  weary  he  could  find  in  his  heart  to  disgrace  his  man's 
apparel  and  cry  like  a  woman;  and  Aliena  declared  she  could 
go  no  farther;  and  then  again  Ganymede  tried  to  recollect 
that  it  was  a  man's  duty  to  comfort   and  console  a  woman, 

[72] 


"I  PRAY  YOU,  BEAR  WITH  ME;  I  CAN  GO  NO 
FURTHER " 


SHAKESPEARE 

as  the  weaker  vessel;  and  to  seem  courageous  to  his  new  sister, 
he  said: 

"Come,  have  a  good  heart,  my  sister  Aliena;  we  are  now  at 
the  end  of  our  travel,  in  the  forest  of  Arden." 

But  feigned  manliness  and  forced  courage  would  no  longer  sup- 
port them;  for,  though  they  were  in  the  forest  of  Arden,  they 
knew  not  where  to  find  the  duke.  And  here  the  travel  of  these 
weary  ladies  might  have  come  to  a  sad  conclusion,  for  they 
might  have  lost  themselves  and  perished  for  want  of  food,  but, 
providentially,  as  they  were  sitting  on  the  grass,  almost  dying 
with  fatigue  and  hopeless  of  any  relief,  a  countryman  chanced  to 
pass  that  way,  and  Ganymede  once  more  tried  to  speak  with  a 
manly  boldness,  saying: 

"Shepherd,  if  love  or  gold  can  in  this  desert  place  procure  us 
entertainment,  I  pray  you  bring  us  where  we  may  rest  ourselves; 
for  this  young  maid,  my  sister,  is  much  fatigued  with  traveling, 
and  faints  for  want  of  food.'* 

The  man  replied  that  he  was  only  a  servant  to  a  shepherd,  and 
that  his  master's  house  was  just  going  to  be  sold,  and  therefore 
they  would  find  but  poor  entertainment;  but  that  if  they  would 
go  with  him  they  should  be  welcome  to  what  there  was.  They 
followed  the  man,  the  near  prospect  of  relief  giving  them  fresh 
strength,  and  bought  the  house  and  sheep  of  the  shepherd,  and 
took  the  man  who  conducted  them  to  the  shepherd's  house  to 
wait  on  them;  and  being  by  this  means  so  fortunately  provided 
with  a  neat  cottage,  and  well  supplied  with  provisions,  they  agreed 
to  stay  here  till  they  could  learn  in  what  part  of  the  forest  the 
duke  dwelt. 

When  they  were  rested  after  the  fatigue  of  their  journey,  they 
began  to  like  their  new  way  of  life,  and  almost  fancied  themselves 
the  shepherd  and  shepherdess  they  feigned  to  be.  Yet  some- 
times Ganymede  remembered  he  had  once  been  the  same  Lady 
Rosalind  who  had  so  dearly  loved  the  brave  Orlando  because 
he  was  the  son  of  old  Sir  Rowland,  her  father's  friend;  and 
though  Ganymede  thought  that  Orlando  was  many  miles  distant, 

[75] 


TALES    FROM 

even  so  many  weary  miles  as  they  nad  traveled,  yet  it  soon  ap- 
peared that  Orlando  was  also  in  the  forest  of  Arden.  And  in  this 
manner  this  strange  event  came  to  pass. 

Orlando  was  the  youngest  son  of  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys,  who, 
when  he  died,  left  him  (Orlando  being  then  very  young)  to  the 
care  of  his  eldest  brother,  Oliver,  charging  Oliver  on  his  blessing 
to  give  his  brother  a  good  education  and  provide  for  him  as 
became  the  dignity  of  their  ancient  house.  Oliver  proved  an 
unworthy  brother,  and,  disregarding  the  commands  of  his  dying 
father,  he  never  put  his  brother  to  school,  but  kept  him  at  home 
untaught  and  entirely  neglected.  But  in  his  nature  and  in  the 
noble  qualities  of  his  mind  Orlando  so  much  resembled  his 
excellent  father  that,  without  any  advantages  of  education,  he 
seemed  like  a  youth  who  had  been  bred  with  the  utmost  care; 
and  Oliver  so  envied  the  fine  person  and  dignified  manners  of  his 
untutored  brother  that  at  last  he  wished  to  destroy  him,  and  to 
effect  this  he  set  on  people  to  persuade  him  to  wrestle  with  the 
famous  wrestler  who,  as  has  been  before  related,  had  killed  so 
many  men.  Now  it  was  this  cruel  brother's  neglect  of  him  which 
made  Orlando  say  he  wished  to  die,  being  so  friendless. 

When,  contrary  to  the  wicked  hopes  he  had  formed,  his  brother 
proved  victorious,  his  envy  and  malice  knew  no  bounds,  and  he 
swore  he  would  burn  the  chamber  where  Orlando  slept.  He  was 
overheard  making  his  vow  by  one  that  had  been  an  old  and  faith- 
ful servant  to  their  father,  and  that  loved  Orlando  because  he 
resembled  Sir  Rowland.  This  old  man  went  out  to  meet  him 
when  he  returned  from  the  duke's  palace,  and  when  he  saw  Or- 
lando the  peril  his  dear  young  master  was  in  made  him  break 
out  into  these  passionate  exclamations: 

"O  my  gentle  master,  my  sweet  master!  O  you  memory  of 
old  Sir  Rowland !  Why  are  you  virtuous  ?  Why  are  you  gentle, 
strong,  and  valiant?  And  why  would  you  be  so  fond  to  over- 
come the  famous  wrestler?  Your  praise  is  come  too  swiftly  home 
before  you." 

Orlando,  wondering  what  all  this  meant,  asked  him  what  was 

[76] 


SHAKESPEARE 


the  matter.  And  then  the  old  man  told  him  how  his  wicked 
brother,  envying  the  love  all  people  bore  him,  and  now  hearing 
the  fame  he  had  gained  by  his  victory  in  the  duke's  palace,  in- 
tended to  destroy  him  by  setting  fire  to  his  chamber  that  night, 
and  in  conclusion  advised  him 
to  escape  the  danger  he  was  in 
by  instant  flight;  and  knowing 
Orlando  had  no  money,  Adam 
(for  that  was  the  good  old  man's 
name)  had  brought  out  with  him 
his  own  little  hoard,  and  he  said: 

"I  have  five  hundred  crowns, 
the  thrifty  hire  I  saved  under  | 
your  father  and  laid  by  to  be 
provision  for  me  when  my  old 
limbs  should  become  unfit  for 
service.  Take  that,  and  He  that 
doth  the  ravens  feed  be  comfort 
to  my  age!  Here  is  the  gold. 
All  this  I  give  to  you.  Let  me 
be  your  servant;  though  I  look 
old  I  will  do  the  service  of  a 
younger  man  in  all  your  business 
and  necessities." 

"O  good  old  man!"  said 
Orlando,  "how  well  appears  in 
you  the  constant  service  of  the 
old  world!     You  are  not  for  the 

fashion  of  these  times.  We  will  go  along  together,  and  before 
your  youthful  wages  are  spent  I  shall  light  upon  some  means 
for  both  our  maintenance." 

Together,  then,  this  faithful  servant  and  his  loved  master  set 
out;  and  Orlando  and  Adam  traveled  on,  uncertain  what  course 
to  pursue,  till  they  came  to  the  forest  of  Arden,  and  there  they 
found  themselves  in  the  same  distress  for  want  of  food  that 

[77) 


J->^5> 


TALES    FROM 

Ganymede  and  Aliena  had  been.  They  wandered  on,  seeking 
some  human  habitation,  till  they  were  almost  spent  with  hunger 
and  fatigue. 

Adam  at  last  said:  "O  my  dear  master,  I  die  for  want  of  food. 
I  can  go  no  farther!"  He  then  laid  himself  down,  thinking  to 
make  that  place  his  grave,  and  bade  his  dear  master  farewell. 

Orlando,  seeing  him  in  this  weak  state,  took  his  old  servant  up 
in  his  arms  and  carried  him  under  the  shelter  of  some  pleasant 
trees;  and  he  said  to  him:  "Cheerly,  old  Adam.  Rest  your 
weary  limbs  here  awhile,  and  do  not  talk  of  dying!" 

Orlando  then  searched  about  to  find  some  food,  and  he  hap- 
pened to  arrive  at  that  part  of  the  forest  where  the  duke  was; 
and  he  and  his  friends  were  just  going  to  eat  their  dinner,  this 
royal  duke  being  seated  on  the  grass,  under  no  other  canopy  than 
the  shady  covert  of  some  large  trees. 

Orlando,  whom  hunger  had  made  desperate,  drew  his  sword, 
intending  to  take  their  meat  by  force,  and  said:  "Forbear  and 
eat  no  more.     I  must  have  your  food!" 

The  duke  asked  him  if  distress  had  made  him  so  bold  or  if 
he  were  a  rude  despiser  of  good  manners.  On  this  Orlando  said 
he  was  dying  with  hunger;  and  then  the  duke  told  him  he  was 
welcome  to  sit  down  and  eat  with  them.  Orlando,  hearing  him 
speak  so  gently,  put  up  his  sword  and  blushed  with  shame  at  the 
j:ude  manner  in  which  he  had  demanded  their  food. 

"Pardon  me,  I  pray  you,"  said  he.  "I  thought  that  all 
things  had  been  savage  here,  and  therefore  I  put  on  the  coun- 
tenance of  stern  command;  but  whatever  men  you  are  that  in  this 
desert,  under  the  shade  of  melancholy  boughs,  lose  and  neglect 
the  creeping  hours  of  time,  if  ever  you  have  looked  on  better 
days,  if  ever  you  have  been  where  bells  have  knolled  to  church, 
if  you  have  ever  sat  at  any  good  man's  feast,  if  ever  from  your  eye- 
lids you  have  wiped  a  tear  and  know  what  it  is  to  pity  or  be  pitied, 
may  gentle  speeches  now  move  you  to  do  me  human  courtesy!" 

The  duke  replied:  "True  it  is  that  we  are  men  (as  you  say) 
who  have  seen  better  days,  and  though  we  have  now  our  habita- 

[78] 


SHAKESPEARE 


tion  in  this  wild  forest,  we  have  lived  in  towns  and  cities  and 
have  with  holy  bell  been  knolled  to  church,  have  sat  at  good  men's 
feasts,  and  from  our  eyes  have  wiped  the  drops  which  sacred 
pity  has  engendered;  therefore  sit  vou  down  and  take  of  our 
refreshment  as  much  as  will 
minister  to  your  wants."  ^^^  —  &    ^ 

"There  is  an  old  poor  man," 
answered  Orlando,  "who  has 
limped  after  me  many  a  weary 
step  in  pure  love,  oppressed  at 
once  with  two  sad  infirmities, 
age  and  hunger;  till  he  be  satis- 
fied I  must  not  touch  a  bit." 

"Go,  find  him  out  and  bring 
him  hither,"  said  the  duke. 
"We  will  forbear  to  eat  till 
you  return." 

Then  Orlando  went  like  a 
doe  to  find  its  fawn  and  give  it 
food;  and  presently  returned, 
bringing  Adam  in  his  arms. 
And  the  duke  said,  "Set  down 
your  venerable  burthen;  you 
are  both  welcome." 

And  they  fed  the  old  man 
and  cheered  his  heart,  and 
he  revived  and  recovered  his 
health  and  strength  again. 

The  duke  inquired  who  Orlando  was;  and  when  he  found  that 
he  was  the  son  of  his  old  friend,  Sir  Rowland  de  Boys,  he  took 
him  under  his  protection,  and  Orlando  and  his  old  servant  lived 
with  the  duke  in  the  forest. 

Orlando  arrived  in  the  forest  not  many  days  after  Ganymede 
and  Aliena  came  there  and  (as  has  been  before  related)  bought 
the  shepherd's  cottage. 

.     [79] 


TALES    FROM 

Ganymede  and  Aliena  were  strangely  surprised  to  find  the 
name  of  Rosalind  carved  on  the  trees,  and  love-sonnets  fastened 
to  them,  all  addressed  to  Rosalind;  and  while  they  were  wonder- 
ing how  this  could  be  they  met  Orlando  and  they  perceived  the 
chain  which  Rosalind  had  given  him  about  his  neck. 

Orlando  little  thought  that  Ganymede  was  the  fair  Princess 
Rosalind  who,  by  her  noble  condescension  and  favor,  had  so 
won  his  heart  that  he  passed  his  whole  time  in  carving 
her  name  upon  the  trees  and  writing  sonnets  in  praise  of  her 
beauty;  but  being  much  pleased  with  the  graceful  air  of  this 
pretty  shepherd-youth,  he  entered  into  conversation  with  him, 
and  he  thought  he  saw  a  likeness  in  Ganymede  to  his  beloved 
Rosalind,  but  that  he  had  none  of  the  dignified  deportment  of 
that  noble  lady;  for  Ganymede  assumed  the  forward  manners 
often  seen  in  youths  when  they  are  between  boys  and  men,  and 
with  much  archness  and  humor  talked  to  Orlando  of  a  certain 
lover,  "who,"  said  she,  "haunts  our  forest,  and  spoils  our  young 
trees  with  carving  Rosalind  upon  their  barks;  and  he  hangs  odes 
upon  hawthorns,  and  elegies  on  brambles,  all  praising  this  same 
Rosalind.  If  I  could  find  this  lover,  I  would  give  him  some 
good  counsel  that  would  soon  cure  him  of  his  love." 

Orlando  confessed  that  he  was  the  fond  lover  of  whom  he  spoke, 
and  asked  Ganymede  to  give  him  the  good  counsel  he  talked  of. 
The  remedy  Ganymede  proposed,  and  the  counsel  he  gave  him, 
was  that  Orlando  should  come  every  day  to  the  cottage  where 
he  and  his  sister  Aliena  dwelt. 

"And  then,"  said  Ganymede,  "I  will  feign  myself  to  be  Rosa- 
lind, and  you  shall  feign  to  court  me  in  the  same  manner  as  you 
would  do  if  I  was  Rosalind,  and  then  I  will  imitate  the  fantastic 
ways  of  whimsical  ladies  to  their  lovers,  till  I  make  you  ashamed 
of  your  love;  and  this  is  the  way  I  propose  to  cure  you." 

Orlando  had  no  great  faith  in  the  remedy,  yet  he  agreed  to 
come  every  day  to  Ganymede's  cottage  and  feign  a  playful 
courtship;  and  every  day  Orlando  visited  Ganymede  and  Aliena, 

and  Orlando  called  the  shepherd  Ganymede  his  Rosalind,  and 

[80] 


SHAKESPEARE 

every  day  talked  over  all  the  fine  words  and  flattering  compli- 
ments which  young  men  delight  to  use  when  they  court  their 
mistresses.  It  does  not  appear,  however,  that  Ganymede  made 
any  progress  in  curing  Orlando  of  his  love  for  Rosalind. 

Though  Orlando  thought  all  this  was  but  a  sportive  play  (not 
dreaming  that  Ganymede  was  his  very  Rosalind),  yet  the  oppor- 
tunity it  gave  him  of  saying  all  the  fond  things  he  had  in  his 
heart  pleased  his  fancy  almost  as  well  as  it  did  Ganymede's, 
who  enjoyed  the  secret  jest  in  knowing  these  fine  love-speeches 
were  all  addressed  to  the  right  person. 

In  this  manner  many  days  passed  pleasantly  on  with  these 
young  people;  and  the  good-natured  Aliena,  seeing  it  made 
Ganymede  happy,  let  him  have  his  own  way  and  was  diverted 
at  the  mock-courtship,  and  did  not  care  to  remind  Ganymede 
that  the  Lady  Rosalind  had  not  yet  made  herself  known  to  the 
duke  her  father,  whose  place  of  resort  in  the  forest  they  had 
learned  from  Orlando.  Ganymede  met  the  duke  one  day,  and 
had  some  talk  with  him,  and  the  duke  asked  of  what  parentage 
he  came.  Ganymede  answered  that  he  came  of  as  good  parentage 
as  he  did,  which  made  the  duke  smile,  for  he  did  not  suspect 
the  pretty  shepherd-boy  came  of  royal  lineage.  Then  seeing 
the  duke  look  well  and  happy,  Ganymede  was  content  to  put 
off  all  further  explanation  for  a  few  days  longer. 

One  morning,  as  Orlando  was  going  to  visit  Ganymede,  he 
saw  a  man  lying  asleep  on  the  ground,  and  a  large  green  snake  had 
twisted  itself  about  his  neck.  The  snake,  seeing  Orlando  ap- 
proach, glided  away  among  the  bushes.  Orlando  went  nearer, 
and  then  he  discovered  a  lioness  lie  crouching,  with  her  head 
on  the  ground,  with  a  catlike  watch,  waiting  until  the  sleeping 
man  awaked  (for  it  is  said  that  lions  will  prey  on  nothing  that 
is  dead  or  sleeping).  It  seemed  as  if  Orlando  was  sent  by  Provi- 
dence to  free  the  man  from  the  danger  of  the  snake  and  lioness; 
but  when  Orlando  looked  in  the  man's  face  he  perceived  that  the 
sleeper  who  was  exposed  to  this  double  peril  was  his  own  brother 
Oliver,  who  had  so  cruelly  used  him  and  had  threatened  to 
6  [81] 


TALES    FROM 

destroy  him  by  fire,  and  he  was  almost  tempted  to  leave  him  a 
prey  to  the  hungry  lioness;  but  brotherly  affection  and  the 
gentleness  of  his  nature  soon  overcame  his  first  anger  against  his 
brother;  and  he  drew  his  sword  and  attacked  the  lioness  and 
slew  her,  and  thus  preserved  his  brother's  life  both  from  the 
venomous  snake  and  from  the  furious  lioness;  but  before  Orlando 
could  conquer  the  lioness  she  had  torn  one  of  his  arms  with  her 
sharp  claws. 

While  Orlando  was  engaged  with  the  lioness,  Oliver  awaked, 
and,  perceiving  that  his  brother  Orlando,  whom  he  had  so 
cruelly  treated,  was  saving  him  from  the  fury  of  a  wild  beast 
at  the  risk  of  his  own  life,  shame  and  remorse  at  once  seized  him, 
and  he  repented  of  his  unworthy  conduct  and  besought  with 
many  tears  his  brother's  pardon  for  the  injuries  he  had  done  him. 
Orlando  rejoiced  to  see  him  so  penitent,  and  readily  forgave  him. 
They  embraced  each  other  and  from  that  hour  Oliver  loved 
Orlando  with  a  true  brotherly  affection,  though  he  had  come  to 
the  forest  bent  on  his  destruction. 

The  wound  in  Orlando's  arm  having  bled  very  much,  he  found 
himself  too  weak  to  go  to  visit  Ganymede,  and  therefore  he 
desired  his  brother  to  go  and  tell  Ganymede,  "whom,"  said 
Orlando,  "I  in  sport  do  call  my  Rosalind,"  the  accident  which 
had  befallen  him. 

Thither  then  Oliver  went,  and  told  to  Ganymede  and  Aliena 
how  Orlando  had  saved  his  life;  and  when  he  had  finished  the 
story  of  Orlando's  bravery  and  his  own  providential  escape  he 
owned  to  them  that  he  was  Orlando's  brother  who  had  so  cruelly 
used  him;   and  then  he  told  them  of  their  reconciliation. 

The  sincere  sorrow  that  Oliver  expressed  for  his  offenses  made 
such  a  lively  impression  on  the  kind  heart  of  Aliena  that  she 
instantly  fell  in  love  with  him;  and  Oliver  observing  how  much 
she  pitied  the  distress  he  told  her  he  felt  for  his  fault,  he  as 
suddenly  fell  in  love  with  her.  But  while  love  was  thus  stealing 
into  the  hearts  of  Aliena  and  Oliver,  he  was  no  less  busy  with 
Ganymede,  who,  hearing  of  the  danger  Orlando  had  been  in, 

[82I 


SHAKESPEARE 


and  that  he  was  wounded  by  the  lioness,  fainted;  and  when  he 
recovered  he  pretended  that  he  had  counterfeited  the  swoon  in 
the  imaginary  character  of  Rosalind,  and  Ganymede  said  to 
Oliver: 

"Tell  your  brother  Orlando  how  well  I  counterfeited  a  swoon." 

But  Oliver  saw  by  the  pale- 
ness of  his  complexion  that  he 
did  really  faint,  and,  much  won- 
dering at  the  weakness  of  the 
young  man,  he  said,  "Well,  if 
you  did  counterfeit,  take  a  good 
heart  and  counterfeit  to  be  a 
man." 

"So  I  do,"  replied  Ganymede, 
truly,  "but  I  should  have  been  a 
woman  by  right." 

Oliver  made  this  visit  a  very 
long  one,  and  when  at  last  he 
returned  back  to  his  brother  he 
had  much  news  to  tell  him;  for, 
besides  the  account  of  Gany- 
mede's fainting  at  the  hearing 
that  Orlando  was  wounded, 
Oliver  told  him  how  he  had 
fallen  in  love  with  the  fair 
shepherdess  Aliena,  and  that  she 
had  lent  a  favorable  ear  to  his 
suit,  even  in  this  their  first  in- 
terview; and  he  talked  to  his 
brother,  as  of  a  thing  almost  settled,  that  he  should  marry 
Aliena,  saying  that  he  so  well  loved  her  that  he  would  live  here 
as  a  shepherd  and  settle  his  estate  and  house  at  home  upon 
Orlando. 

"You  have  my  consent,"  said  Orlando.     "Let  your  wedding 
be  to-morrow,  and  I  will  invite  the  duke  and  his  friends.     Go 

[83] 


TALES    FROM 

and  persuade  your  shepherdess  to  agree  to  this.  She  is  now 
alone,  for,  look,  here  comes  her  brother." 

Oliver  went  to  Aliena,  and  Ganymede,  whom  Orlando  had 
perceived  approaching,  came  to  inquire  after  the  health  of  his 
wounded  friend. 

When  Orlando  and  Ganymede  began  to  talk  over  the  sudden 
love  which  had  taken  place  between  Oliver  and  Aliena,  Orlando 
said  he  had  advised  his  brother  to  persuade  his  fair  shepherdess 
to  be  married  on  the  morrow,  and  then  he  added  how  much  he 
could  wish  to  be  married  on  the  same  day  to  his  Rosalind. 

Ganymede,  who  well  approved  of  this  arrangement,  said  that 
if  Orlando  really  loved  Rosalind  as  well  as  he  professed  to  do, 
he  should  have  his  wish;  for  on  the  morrow  he  would  engage 
to  make  Rosalind  appear  in  her  own  person,  and  also  that  Rosalind 
should  be  willing  to  marry  Orlando. 

This  seemingly  wonderful  event,  which,  as  Ganymede  was  the 
Lady  Rosalind,  he  could  so  easily  perform,  he  pretended  he  would 
bring  to  pass  by  the  aid  of  magic,  which  he  said  he  had  learned 
of  an  uncle  who  was  a  famous  magician. 

The  fond  lover  Orlando,  half  believing  and  half  doubting  what 
he  heard,  asked  Ganymede  if  he  spoke  in  sober  meaning. 

"By  my  life  I  do,"  said  Ganymede.  "Therefore  put  on  your 
best  clothes,  and  bid  the  duke  and  your  friends  to  your  wedding, 
for  if  you  desire  to  be  married  to-morrow  to  Rosalind,  she  shall 
be  here." 

The  next  morning,  Oliver  having  obtained  the  consent  of 
Aliena,  they  came  into  the  presence  of  the  duke,  and  with  them 
also  came  Orlando. 

They  being  all  assembled  to  celebrate  this  double  marriage, 
and  as  yet  only  one  of  the  brides  appearing,  there  was  much  of 
wondering  and  conjecture,  but  they  mostly  thought  that  Gany- 
mede was  making  a  jest  of  Orlando. 

The  duke,  hearing  that  it  was  his  own  daughter  that  was  to 
be  brought  in  this  strange  way,  asked  Orlando  if  he  believed  the 
shepherd-boy  could  really  do  what  he  had  promised;   and  while 

[84] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Orlando  was  answering  that  he  knew  not  what  to  think,  Gany- 
mede entered  and  asked  the  duke,  if  he  brought  his  daughter, 
whether  he  would  consent  to  her  marriage  with  Orlando. 

"That  I  would,"  said  the 
duke,  "if  I  had  kingdoms  to 
give  with  her." 

Ganymede  then  said  to 
Orlando,  "And  you  say  you  will 
marry  her  if  I  bring  her  here." 

"That  I  would,"  said  Orlando, 
"if  I  were  king  of  many  king- 
doms." 

Ganymede  and  Aliena  then 
went  out  together,  and,  Gany- 
mede throwing  off  his  male 
attire,  and  being  once  more 
dressed  in  woman's  apparel, 
quickly  became  Rosalind  with- 
out the  power  of  magic;  and 
Aliena,  changing  her  country 
garb  for  her  own  rich  clothes, 
was  with  as  little  trouble  trans- 
formed into  the  lady  Celia. 

While  they  were  gone,  the 
duke  said  to  Orlando  that  he 
thought  the  shepherd  Gany- 
mede   very    like    his    daughter 

Rosalind;  and  Orlando  said  he  also  had  observed  the  re- 
semblance 

They  had  no  time  to  wonder  how  all  this  would  end,  for 
Rosalind  and  Celia,  in  their  own  clothes,  entered,  and,  no  longer 
pretending  that  it  was  by  the  power  of  magic  that  she  came 
there,  Rosalind  threw  herself  on  her  knees  before  her  father  and 
begged  his  blessing.  It  seemed  so  wonderful  to  all  present  that 
she  should  so  suddenly  appear,  that  it  might  well  have  passed 

[85] 


TALESFROM 

for  magic;  but  Rosalind  would  no  longer  trifle  with  her  father, 
and  told  him  the  story  of  her  banishment,  and  of  her  dwelling 
in  the  forest  as  a  shepherd-boy,  her  cousin  Celia  passing  as  her 
sister. 

The  duke  ratified  the  consent  he  had  already  given  to  the 
marriage;  and  Orlando  and  Rosalind,  Oliver  and  Celia,  were 
married  at  the  same  time.  And  though  their  wedding  could  not 
be  celebrated  in  this  wild  forest  with  any  of  the  parade  of  splendor 
usual  on  such  occasions,  yet  a  happier  wedding-day  was  never 
passed.  And  while  they  were  eating  their  venison  under  the 
cool  shade  of  the  pleasant  trees,  as  if  nothing  should  be  wanting 
to  complete  the  felicity  of  this  good  duke  and  the  true  lovers,  an 
unexpected  messenger  arrived  to  tell  the  duke  the  joyful  news 
that  his  dukedom  was  restored  to  him. 

The  usurper,  enraged  at  the  flight  of  his  daughter  Celia,  and 
hearing  that  every  day  men  of  great  worth  resorted  to  the  forest 
of  Arden  to  join  the  lawful  duke  in  his  exile,  much  envying  that 
his  brother  should  be  so  highly  respected  in  his  adversity,  put 
himself  at  the  head  of  a  large  force  and  advanced  toward  the  forest, 
intending  to  seize  his  brother  and  put  him  with  all  his  faithful 
followers  to  the  sword;  but  by  a  wonderful  interposition  of 
Providence  this  bad  brother  was  converted  from  his  evil  intention, 
for  just  as  he  entered  the  skirts  of  the  wild  forest  he  was  met  by 
an  old  religious  man,  a  hermit,  with  whom  he  had  much  talk 
and  who  in  the  end  completely  turned  his  heart  from  his  wicked 
design.  Thenceforward  he  became  a  true  penitent,  and  resolved, 
relinquishing  his  unjust  dominion,  to  spend  the  remainder  of 
his  days  in  a  religious  house.  The  first  act  of  his  newly  conceived 
penitence  was  to  send  a  messenger  to  his  brother  (as  has  been 
related)  to  offer  to  restore  to  him  his  dukedom,  which  he  had 
usurped  so  long,  and  with  it  the  lands  and  revenues  of  his  friends, 
the  faithful  followers  of  his  adversity. 

This  joyful  news,  as  unexpected  as  it  was  welcome,  came  op- 
portunely to  heighten  the  festivity  and  rejoicings  at  the  wedding 
of  the  princesses.     Celia  complimented  her  cousin  on  this  good 

[86] 


SHAKESPEARE 

fortune  which  had  happened  to  the  duke,  Rosalind's  father,  and 
wished  her  joy  very  sincerely,  though  she  herself  was  no  longer 
heir  to  the  dukedom,  but  by  this  restoration  which  her  father 
had  made,  Rosalind  was  now  the  heir,  so  completely  was  the  love 
of  these  two  cousins  unmixed  with  anything  of  jealousy  or  of  envy. 
The  duke  had  now  an  opportunity  of  rewarding  those  true 
friends  who  had  stayed  with  him  in  his  banishment;  and  these 
worthy  followers,  though  they  had  patiently  shared  his  adverse 
fortune,  were  very  well  pleased  to  return  in  peace  and  prosperity 
to  the  palace  of  their  lawful  duke. 


TALES    FROM 


TWO   GENTLEMEN  OF  VERONA 


'HERE  lived  in  the  city  of  Verona  two 
young  gentlemen,  whose  names  were 
Valentine  and  Proteus,  between  whom 
a  firm  and  uninterrupted  friendship  had 
long  subsisted.  They  pursued  their 
studies  together,  and  their  hours  of 
leisure  were  always  passed  in  each  other's 
company,  except  when  Proteus  visited  a 
lady  he  was  in  love  with.  And  these 
visits  to  his  mistress,  and  this  passion  of  Proteus  for  the  fair 
Julia,  were  the  only  topics  on  which  these  two  friends  disagreed; 
for  Valentine,  not  being  himself  a  lover,  was  sometimes  a  little 
weary  of  hearing  his  friend  forever  talking  of  his  Julia,  and  then 
he  would  laugh  at  Proteus,  and  in  pleasant  terms  ridicule  the 
passion  of  love,  and  declare  that  no  such  idle  fancies  should 
ever  enter  his  head,  greatly  preferring  (as  he  said)  the  free  and 
happy  life  he  led  to  the  anxious  hopes  and  fears  of  the  lover 
Proteus. 

One  morning  Valentine  came  to  Proteus  to  tell  him  that  they 
must  for  a  time  be  separated,  for  that  he  was  going  to  Milan. 
Proteus,  unwilling  to  part  with  his  friend,  used  many  arguments 
to  prevail  upon  Valentine  not  to  leave  him.  But  Valentine  said : 
"Cease  to  persuade  me,  my  loving  Proteus.  I  will  not,  like  a 
sluggard,  wear  out  my  youth  in  idleness  at  home.  Home-keeping 
youths  have  ever  homely  wits.  If  your  affection  were  not 
chained  to  the  sweet  glances  of  your  honored  Julia,  I  would  en- 
treat you  to  accompany  me,  to  see  the  wonders  of  the  world 
abroad;  but  since  you  are  a  lover,  love  on  still,  and  may  your 
love  be  prosperous!" 


SHAKESPEARE 

They  parted  with  mutual  expressions  of  unalterable  friendship. 

"Sweet  Valentine,  adieu!"  said  Proteus.  "Think  on  me  when 
you  see  some  rare  object  worthy  of  notice  in  your  travels,  and 
wish  me  partaker 
of  your  happi- 
ness." 

Valentine  be- 
gan his  journey 
that  same  day 
toward  Milan; 
and  when  his 
friend  had  left 
him,  Proteus  sat 
down  to  write  a 
letter  to  Julia, 
which  he  gave  to 
her  maid  Lucetta 
to  deliver  to  her 
mistress. 

Julia  loved 
Proteus  as  well 
as  he  did  her,  but 
she  was  a  lady  of 
a  noble  spirit,  and  she  thought  it  did  not  become  her  maiden 
dignity  too  easily  to  be  won;  therefore  she  affected  to  be  in- 
sensible of  his  passion  and  gave  him  much  uneasiness  in  the 
prosecution  of  his  suit. 

And  when  Lucetta  offered  the  letter  to  Julia  she  would  not 
receive  it,  and  chid  her  maid  for  taking  letters  from  Proteus, 
and  ordered  her  to  leave  the  room.  But  she  so  much  wished 
to  see  what  was  written  in  the  letter  that  she  soon  called  in 
her  maid  again;  and  when  Lucetta  returned  she  said,  "What 
o'clock  is  it?" 

Lucetta,  who  knew  her  mistress  more  desired  to  see  the  letter 
than  to  know  the  time  of  day,  without  answering  her  question 

[89] 


TALES    FROM 

again  offered  the  rejected  letter.  Julia,  angry  that  her  maid 
should  thus  take  the  liberty  of  seeming  to  know  what  she  really 
wanted,  tore  the  letter  in  pieces  and  threw  it  on  the  floor,  ordering 
her  maid  once  more  out  of  the  room.  As  Lucetta  was  retiring, 
she  stopped  to  pick  up  the  fragments  of  the  torn  letter;  but 
Julia,  who  meant  not  so  to  part  with  them,  said,  in  pretended 
anger,  "Go,  get  you  gone,  and  let  the  papers  lie;  you  would  be 
fingering  them  to  anger  me." 

Julia  then  began  to  piece  together  as  well  as  she  could  the  torn 
fragments.  She  first  made  out  these  words,  "Love-wounded 
Proteus";  and  lamenting  over  these  and  such  like  loving  words, 
which  she  made  out  though  they  were  all  torn  asunder,  or,  she 
said  wounded  (the  expression  "Love-wounded  Proteus"  giving 
her  that  idea),  she  talked  to  these  kind  words,  telling  them  she 
would  lodge  them  in  her  bosom  as  in  a  bed,  till  their  wounds  were 
healed,  and  that  she  would  kiss  each  several  piece  to  make  amends. 

In  this  manner  she  went  on  talking  with  a  pretty,  ladylike 
childishness,  till,  finding  herself  unable  to  make  out  the  whole, 
and  vexed  at  her  own  ingratitude  in  destroying  such  sweet  and 
loving  words,  as  she  called  them,  she  wrote  a  much  kinder  letter 
to  Proteus  than  she  had  ever  done  before. 

Proteus  was  greatly  delighted  at  receiving  this  favorable 
answer  to  his  letter.  And  while  he  was  reading  it  he  exclaimed, 
"Sweet  love!  sweet  lines!  sweet  life!" 

In  the  midst  of  his  raptures  he  was  interrupted  by  his  father. 
"How  now?"  said  the  old  gentleman.  "What  letter  are  you 
reading  there?" 

"My  lord,"  replied  Proteus,  "it  is  a  letter  from  my  friend 
Valentine,  at  Milan." 

"Lend  me  the  letter,"  said  his  father.  "Let  me  see  what 
news." 

"There  is  no  news,  my  lord,"  said  Proteus,  greatly  alarmed, 
"but  that  he  writes  how  well  beloved  he  is  of  the  Duke  of  Milan, 
who  daily  graces  him  with  favors,  and  how  he  wishes  me  with 
him,  the  partner  of  his  fortune." 

[90] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"And  how  stand  you  affected  to  his  wish?"  asked  the  father. 

"As  one  relying  on  your  lordship's  will  and  not  depending 
on  his  friendly  wish,"  said  Proteus. 

Now  it  had  happened  that  Proteus's  father  had  just  been 
talking  with  a  friend  on  this  very  subject.  His  friend  had  said 
he  wondered  his  lordship  suffered  his  son  to  spend  his  youth 
at  home  while  most  men  were  sending  their  sons  to  seek  prefer- 
ment abroad. 

"Some,"  said  he,  "to  the  wars,  to  try  their  fortunes  there,  and 
some  to  discover  islands  far  away,  and  some  to  study  in  foreign 
universities.  And  there  is  his  companion  Valentine;  he  is  gone 
to  the  Duke  of  Milan's  court.  Your  son  is  fit  for  any  of  these 
things,  and  it  will  be  a  great  disadvantage  to  him  in  his  riper  age 
not  to  have  traveled  in  his  youth." 

Proteus's  father  thought  the  advice  of  his  friend  was  very  good, 
and  upon  Proteus  telling  him  that  Valentine  "wished  him  with 
him,  the  partner  of  his  fortune,"  he  at  once  determined  to  send 
his  son  to  Milan;  and  without  giving  Proteus  any  reason  for  this 
sudden  resolution,  it  being  the  usual  habit  of  this  positive  old 
gentleman  to  command  his  son,  not  reason  with  him,  he  said: 

"My  will  is  the  same  as  Valentine's  wish."  And  seeing  his 
son  look  astonished,  he  added:  "Look  not  amazed,  that  I  so 
suddenly  resolve  you  shall  spend  some  time  in  the  Duke  of 
Milan's  court;  for  what  I  will  I  will,  and  there  is  an  end.  To- 
morrow be  in  readiness  to  go.  Make  no  excuses,  for  I  am 
peremptory." 

Proteus  knew  it  was  of  no  use  to  make  objections  to  his  father, 
who  never  suffered  him  to  dispute  his  will;  and  he  blamed  himself 
for  telling  his  father  an  untruth  about  Julia's  letter,  which  had 
brought  upon  him  the  sad  necessity  of  leaving  her. 

Now  that  Julia  found  she  was  going  to  lose  Proteus  for  so 
long  a  time  she  no  longer  pretended  indifference;  and  they  bade 
each  other  a  mournful  farewell,  with  many  vows  of  love  and 
constancy.  Proteus  and  Julia  exchanged  rings,  which  they  both 
promised  to  keep  forever  in  remembrance  of  each  other;    and 

I  9i] 


TALES    FROM 

thus,  taking  a  sorrowful  leave,  Proteus  set  out  on  his  journey 
to  Milan,  the  abode  of  his  friend  Valentine. 

Valentine  was  in  reality,  what  Proteus  had  feigned  to  his 
father,  in  high  favor  with  the  Duke  of  Milan;  and  another 
event  had  happened  to  him  of  which  Proteus  did  not  even 
dream,  for  Valentine  had  given  up  the  freedom  of  which  he 
used  so  much  to  boast,  and  was  become  as  passionate  a  lover 
as  Proteus. 

She  who  had  wrought  this  wondrous  change  in  Valentine  was 
the  Lady  Silvia,  daughter  of  the  Duke  of  Milan,  and  she  also 
loved  him;  but  they  concealed  their  love  from  the  duke,  because, 
although  he  showed  much  kindness  for  Valentine  and  invited 
him  every  day  to  his  palace,  yet  he  designed  to  marry  his  daughter 
to  a  young  courtier  whose  name  was  Thurio.  Silvia  despised 
this  Thurio,  for  he  had  none  of  the  fine  sense  and  excellent  qual- 
ities of  Valentine. 

These  two  rivals,  Thurio  and  Valentine,  were  one  day  on  a 
visit  to  Silvia,  and  Valentine  was  entertaining  Silvia  with  turning 
everything  Thurio  said  into  ridicule,  when  the  duke  himself 
entered  the  room  and  told  Valentine  the  welcome  news  of  his 
friend  Proteus's  arrival. 

Valentine  said,  "If  I  had  wished  a  thing,  it  would  have  been  to 
have  seen  him  here!"  And  then  he  highly  praised  Proteus  to  the 
duke,  saying,  "My  lord,  though  I  have  been  a  truant  of  my  time, 
yet  hath  my  friend  made  use  and  fair  advantage  of  his  days,  and 
is  complete  in  person  and  in  mind,  in  all  good  grace  to  grace  a 
gentleman." 

"Welcome  him,  then,  according  to  his  worth,"  said  the  duke. 
"Silvia,  I  speak  to  you,  and  you,  Sir  Thurio;  for  Valentine,  I 
need  not  bid  him  do  so." 

They  were  here  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Proteus,  and 
Valentine  introduced  him  to  Silvia,  saying,  "Sweet  lady,  enter- 
tain him  to  be  my  fellow-servant  to  your  ladyship." 

When  Valentine  and  Proteus  had  ended  their  visit,  and  were 
alone  together,  Valentine  said: 

[92] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"Now  tell  me  how  all  does  from  whence  you  came?  How  does 
your  lady,  and  how  thrives  your  love  ?" 

Proteus  replied:  "My  tales  of  love  used  to  weary  you.  I 
know  you  joy  not  in  a  love  discourse." 

"Aye,  Proteus,"  returned  Valentine,  "but  that  life  is  altered 
now.  I  have  done  penance  for  condemning  love.  For  in  revenge 
of  my  contempt  of  love,  love  has  chased  sleep  from  my  enthralled 
eyes.  O  gentle  Proteus,  Love  is  a  mighty  lord,  and  hath  so 
humbled  me  that  I  confess  there  is  no  woe  like  his  correction 
nor  no  such  joy  on  earth  as  in  his  service.  I  now  like  no  discourse 
except  it  be  of  love.  Now  I  can  break  my  fast,  dine,  sup,  and 
sleep  upon  the  very  name  of  love." 

This  acknowledgment  of  the  change  which  love  had  made  in 
the  disposition  of  Valentine  was  a  great  triumph  to  his  friend 
Proteus.  But  "friend"  Proteus  must  be  called  no  longer,  for 
the  same  all-powerful  deity  Love,  of  whom  they  were  speaking 
(yea,  even  while  they  were  talking  of  the  change  he  had  made 
in  Valentine),  was  working  in  the  heart  of  Proteus;  and  he,  who  had 
till  this  time  been  a  pattern  of  true  love  and  perfect  friendship, 
was  now,  in  one  short  interview  with  Silvia,  become  a  false  friend 
and  a  faithless  lover;  for  at  the  first  sight  of  Silvia  all  his  love 
for  Julia  vanished  away  like  a  dream,  nor  did  his  long  friendship 
for  Valentine  deter  him  from  endeavoring  to  supplant  him  in  her 
affections;  and  although,  as  it  will  always  be,  when  people  of  dis- 
positions naturally  good  become  unjust,  he  had  many  scruples 
before  he  determined  to  forsake  Julia  and  become  the  rival  of 
Valentine,  yet  he  at  length  overcame  his  sense  of  duty  and 
yielded  himself  up,  almost  without  remorse,  to  his  new  unhappy 
passion. 

Valentine  imparted  to  him  in  confidence  the  whole  history  of 
his  love,  and  how  carefully  they  had  concealed  it  from  the  duke 
her  father,  and  told  him  that,  despairing  of  ever  being  able  to 
obtain  his  consent,  he  had  prevailed  upon  Silvia  to  leave  her 
father's  palace  that  night  and  go  with  him  to  Mantua;  then  he 
showed  Proteus  a  ladder  of  ropes  by  help  of  which  he  meant  to 

[93]   " 


TALES    FROM 

assist  Silvia  to  get  out  of  one  of  the  windows  of  the  palace  after  it 
was  dark. 

Upon  hearing  this  faithful  recital  of  his  friend's  dearest  secrets, 
it  is  hardly  possible  to  be  believed,  but  so  it  was  that  Proteus 
resolved  to  go  to  the  duke  and  disclose  the  whole  to  him. 

This  false  friend  began  his  tale  with  many  artful  speeches  to 
the  duke,  such  as  that  by  the  laws  of  friendship  he  ought  to 
conceal  what  he  was  going  to  reveal,  but  that  the  gracious  favor 
the  duke  had  shown  him,  and  the  duty  he  owed  his  grace,  urged 
him  to  tell  that  which  else  no  worldly  good  should  draw  from 
him.  He  then  told  all  he  had  heard  from  Valentine,  not  omitting 
the  ladder  of  ropes  and  the  manner  in  which  Valentine  meant  to 
conceal  them  under  a  long  cloak. 

The  duke  thought  Proteus  quite  a  miracle  of  integrity,  in  that 
he  preferred  telling  his  friend's  intention  rather  than  he  would 
conceal  an  unjust  action;  highly  commended  him,  and  promised 
him  not  to  let  Valentine  know  from  whom  he  had  learned  this 
intelligence,  but  by  some  artifice  to  make  Valentine  betray  the 
secret  himself.  For  this  purpose  the  duke  awaited  the  coming 
of  Valentine  in  the  evening,  whom  he  soon  saw  hurrying  toward 
the  palace,  and  he  perceived  somewhat  was  wrapped  within  his 
cloak,  which  he  concluded  was  the  rope  ladder. 

The  duke,  upon  this,  stopped  him,  saying,  "Whither  away  so 
fast,  Valentine?" 

"May  it  please  your  grace,"  said  Valentine,  "there  is  a  mes- 
senger that  stays  to  bear  my  letters  to  my  friends,  and  I  am 
going  to  deliver  them." 

Now  this  falsehood  of  Valentine's  had  no  better  success  in  the 
event  than  the  untruth  Proteus  told  his  father. 

"Be  they  of  much  import?"  said  the  duke. 

"No  more,  my  lord,"  said  Valentine,  "than  to  tell  my  father 
I  am  well  and  happy  at  your  grace's  court." 

"Nay  then,"  said  the  duke,  "no  matter;  stay  with  me  awhile. 
I  wish  your  counsel  about  some  affairs  that  concern  me  nearly." 

He  then  told  Valentine  an  artful  story,  as  a  prelude  to  draw  his 

[94] 


SHAKESPEARE 

secret  from  him,  saying  that  Valentine  knew  he  wished  to  match 
his  daughter  with  Thurio,  but  that  she  was  stubborn  and  dis- 
obedient to  his  commands. 

"Neither  regarding,"  said  he,  "that  she  is  my  child  nor  fearing 
me  as  if  I  were  her  father.  And  I  may  say  to  thee  this  pride 
of  hers  has  drawn  my  love  from  her.  I  had  thought  my  age 
should  have  been  cherished  by  her  childlike  duty.  I  now  am 
resolved  to  take  a  wife,  and  turn  her  out  to  whosoever  will 
take  her  in.  Let  her  beauty  be  her  wedding  dower,  for  me  and 
my  possessions  she  esteems  not." 

Valentine,  wondering  where  all  this  would  end,  made  answer, 
"And  what  would  your  grace  have  me  to  do  in  all  this?" 

"Why,"  said  the  duke,  "the  lady  I  would  wish  to  marry  is  nice 
and  coy  and  does  not  much  esteem  my  aged  eloquence.  Besides, 
the  fashion  of  courtship  is  much  changed  since  I  was  young. 
Now  I  would  willingly  have  you  to  be  my  tutor  to  instruct  me  how 
I  am  to  woo." 

Valentine  gave  him  a  general  idea  of  the  modes  of  courtship 
then  practised  by  young  men  when  they  wished  to  win  a  fair 
lady's  love,  such  as  presents,  frequent  visits,  and  the  like. 

The  duke  replied  to  this  that  the  lady  did  refuse  a  present 
which  he  sent  her,  and  that  she  was  so  strictly  kept  by  her 
father  that  no  man  might  have  access  to  her  by  day. 

"Why,  then,"  said  Valentine,  "you  must  visit  her  by  night." 

"But  at  night,"  said  the  artful  duke,  who  was  now  coming  to 
the  drift  of  his  discourse,  "her  doors  are  fast  locked." 

Valentine  then  unfortunately  proposed  that  the  duke  should 
get  into  the  lady's  chamber  at  night  by  means  of  a  ladder  of 
ropes,  saying  he  would  procure  him  one  fitting  for  that  purpose; 
and  in  conclusion  advised  him  to  conceal  this  ladder  of  ropes 
under  such  a  cloak  as  that  which  he  now  wore. 

"Lend  me  your  cloak,"  said  the  duke,  who  had  feigned  this 
long  story  on  purpose  to  have  a  pretense  to  get  off  the  cloak; 
so  upon  saying  these  words  he  caught  hold  of  Valentine's  cloak 
and,  throwing  it  back,  he  discovered  not  only  the  ladder  of  ropes, 

[95] 


TALES    FROM 

but  also  a  letter  of  Silvia's,  which  he  instantly  opened  and  read; 
and  this  letter  contained  a  full  account  of  their  intended  elope- 
ment. The  duke,  after  upbraiding  Valentine  for  his  ingratitude 
in  thus  returning  the  favor  he  had  shown  him,  by  endeavoring  to 
steal  away  his  daughter,  banished  him  from  the  court  and  city 
of  Milan  forever,  and  Valentine  was  forced  to  depart  that  night 
without  even  seeing  Silvia. 

While  Proteus  at  Milan  was  thus  injuring  Valentine,  Julia 
at  Verona  was  regretting  the  absence  of  Proteus;  and  her  regard 
for  him  at  last  so  far  overcame  her  sense  of  propriety  that  she 
resolved  to  leave  Verona  and  seek  her  lover  at  Milan;  and  to 
secure  herself  from  danger  on  the  road  she  dressed  her  maiden 
Lucetta  and  herself  in  men's  clothes,  and  they  set  out  in  this 
disguise,  and  arrived  at  Milan  soon  after  Valentine  was  banished 
from  that  city  through  the  treachery  of  Proteus. 

Julia  entered  Milan  about  noon,  and  she  took  up  her  abode 
at  an  inn;  and,  her  thoughts  being  all  on  her  dear  Proteus,  she 
entered  into  conversation  with  the  innkeeper — or  host,  as  he  was 
called — thinking  by  that  means  to  learn  some  news  of  Proteus. 

The  host  was  greatly  pleased  that  this  handsome  young  gentle- 
man (as  he  took  her  to  be),  who  from  his  appearance  he  con- 
cluded was  of  high  rank,  spoke  so  familiarly  to  him,  and,  being  a 
good-natured  man,  he  was  sorry  to  see  him  look  so  melancholy; 
and  to  amuse  his  young  guest  he  offered  to  take  him  to  hear  some 
fine  music,  with  which,  he  said,  a  gentleman  that  evening  was 
going  to  serenade  his  mistress. 

The  reason  Julia  looked  so  very  melancholy  was,  that  she  did 
not  well  know  what  Proteus  would  think  of  the  imprudent  step 
she  had  taken,  for  she  knew  he  had  loved  her  for  her  noble  maiden 
pride  and  dignity  of  character,  and  she  feared  she  should  lower 
herself  in  his  esteem;  and  this  it  was  that  made  her  wear  a  sad 
and  thoughtful  countenance. 

She  gladly  accepted  the  offer  of  the  host  to  go  with  him  and 
hear  the  music;  for  she  secretly  hoped  she  might  meet  Proteus 
by  the  way. 

[96] 


SHE   BEHELD   HER   LOVER   SERENADING  THE   LADY 
SILVIA  WITH  MUSIC 


SHAKESPEARE 

But  when  she  came  to  the  palace  whither  the  host  conducted 
her  a  very  different  effect  was  produced  to  what  the  kind  host 
intended;  for  there,  to  her  heart's  sorrow,  she  beheld  her  lover, 
the  inconstant  Proteus,  serenading  the  Lady  Silvia  with  music, 
and  addressing  discourse  of  love  and  admiration  to  her.  And 
Julia  overheard  Silvia  from  a  window  talk  with  Proteus,  and  re- 
proach him  for  forsaking  his  own  true  lady,  and  for  his  ingratitude 
to  his  friend  Valentine;  and  then  Silvia  left  the  window,  not 
choosing  to  listen  to  his  music  and  his  fine  speeches;  for  she 
was  a  faithful  lady  to  her  banished  Valentine,  and  abhorred 
the  ungenerous  conduct  of  his  false  friend,  Proteus. 

Though  Julia  was  in  despair  at  what  she  had  just  witnessed, 
yet  did  she  still  love  the  truant  Proteus;  and  hearing  that  he  had 
lately  parted  with  a  servant,  she  contrived,  with  the  assistance 
of  her  host,  the  friendly  innkeeper,  to  hire  herself  to  Proteus  as  a 
page;  and  Proteus  knew  not  she  was  Julia,  and  he  sent  her  with 
letters  and  presents  to  her  rival,  Silvia,  and  he  even  sent  by  her 
the  very  ring  she  gave  him  as  a  parting  gift  at  Verona. 

When  she  went  to  that  lady  with  the  ring  she  was  most  glad 
to  find  that  Silvia  utterly  rejected  the  suit  of  Proteus;  and 
Julia — or  the  page  Sebastian,  as  she  was  called — entered  into 
conversation  with  Silvia  about  Proteus's  first  love,  the  forsaken 
Lady  Julia.  She  putting  in  (as  one  may  say)  a  good  word  for 
herself,  said  she  knew  Julia;  as  well  she  might,  being  herself  the 
Julia  of  whom  she  spoke;  telling  how  fondly  Julia  loved  her  mas- 
ter, Proteus,  and  how  his  unkind  neglect  would  grieve  her.  And 
then  she  with  a  pretty  equivocation  went  on:  "Julia  is  about  my 
height,  and  of  my  complexion,  the  color  of  her  eyes  and  hair  the 
same  as  mine."  And  indeed  Julia  looked  a  most  beautiful  youth 
in  her  boy's  attire. 

Silvia  was  moved  to  pity  this  lovely  lady  who  was  so  sadly 
forsaken  by  the  man  she  loved;  and  when  Julia  offered  the  ring 
which  Proteus  had  sent,  refused  it,  saying: 

"The  more  shame  for  him  that  he  sends  me  that  ring.  I  will 
not  take  it,  for  I  have  often  heard  him  say  his  Julia  gave  it  to 

[99] 


TALES    FROM 

him.  I  love  thee,  gentle  youth,  for  pitying  her,  poor  lady!  Here 
is  a  purse;  I  give  it  you  for  Julia's  sake." 

These  comfortable  words  coming  from  her  kind  rival's  tongue 
cheered  the  drooping  heart  of  the  disguised  lady. 

But  to  return  to  the  banished  Valentine,  who  scarce  knew 
which  way  to  bend  his  course,  being  unwilling  to  return  home  to 
his  father  a  disgraced  and  banished  man.  As  he  was  wandering 
over  a  lonely  forest,  not  far  distant  from  Milan,  where  he  had 
left  his  heart's  dear  treasure,  the  Lady  Silvia,  he  was  set  upon  by 
robbers,  who  demanded  his  money. 

Valentine  told  them  that  he  was  a  man  crossed  by  adversity, 
that  he  was  going  into  banishment,  and  that  he  had  no  money, 
the  clothes  he  had  on  being  all  his  riches. 

The  robbers,  hearing  that  he  was  a  distressed  man,  and  being 
struck  with  his  noble  air  and  manly  behavior,  told  him  if  he  would 
live  with  them  and  be  their  chief,  or  captain,  they  would  put 
themselves  under  his  command;  but  that  if  he  refused  to  accept 
their  offer  they  would  kill  him. 

Valentine,  who  cared  little  what  became  of  himself,  said  he 
would  consent  to  live  with  them  and  be  their  captain,  provided 
they  did  no  outrage  on  women  or  poor  passengers. 

Thus  the  noble  Valentine  became,  like  Robin  Hood,  of  whom  we 
read  in  ballads,  a  captain  of  robbers  and  outlawed  banditti;  and  in 
this  situation  he  was  found  by  Silvia,  and  in  this  manner  it  came 
to  pass. 

Silvia,  to  avoid  a  marriage  with  Thurio,  whom  her  father 
insisted  upon  her  no  longer  refusing,  came  at  last  to  the  resolution 
of  following  Valentine  to  Mantua,  at  which  place  she  had  heard 
her  lover  had  taken  refuge;  but  in  this  account  she  was  misin- 
formed, for  he  still  lived  in  the  forest  among  the  robbers,  bearing 
the  name  of  their  captain,  but  taking  no  part  in  their  depredations, 
and  using  the  authority  which  they  had  imposed  upon  him  in  no 
other  way  than  to  compel  them  to  show  compassion  to  the 
travelers  they  robbed. 

Silvia  contrived  to  effect  her  escape  from  her  father's  palace 

[ioo] 


SHAKESPEARE 

in  company  with  a  worthy  old  gentleman  whose  name  was 
Eglamour,  whom  she  took  along  with  her  for  protection  on  the 
road.  She  had  to  pass  through  the  forest  where  Valentine  and 
the  banditti  dwelt;  and  one  of  these  robbers  seized  on  Silvia, 
and  would  also  have  taken  Eglamour,  but  he  escaped. 


The  robber  who  had  taken  Silvia,  seeing  the  terror  she  was  in, 
bade  her  not  be  alarmed,  for  that  he  was  only  going  to  carry  her 
to  a  cave  where  his  captain  lived,  and  that  she  need  not  be  afraid, 
for  their  captain  had  an  honorable  mind  and  always  showed 
humanity  to  women.  Silvia  found  little  comfort  in  hearing 
she  was  going  to  be  carried  as  a  prisoner  before  the  captain  of  a 
lawless  banditti. 

"O  Valentine,"  she  cried,  "this  I  endure  for  thee!" 
But  as  the  robber  was  conveying  her  to  the  cave  of  his  captain 
he  was  stopped  by  Proteus,  who,  still  attended  by  Julia  in  the  dis- 
guise of  a  page,  having  heard  of  the  flight  of  Silvia,  had  traced 
her  steps  to  this  forest.  Proteus  now  rescued  her  from  the  hands 
of  the  robber;    but  scarce  had  she  time  to  thank  him  for  the 

IioiJ 


TALES    FROM 

service  he  had  done  her  before  he  began  to  distress  her  afresh 
with  his  love  suit;  and  while  he  was  rudely  pressing  her  to  con- 
sent to  marry  him,  and  his  page  (the  forlorn  Julia)  was  standing 
beside  him  in  great  anxiety  of  mind,  fearing  lest  the  great  service 
which  Proteus  had  just  done  to  Silvia  should  win  her  to  show  him 
some  favor,  they  were  all  strangely  surprised  with  the  sudden 
appearance  of  Valentine,  who,  having  heard  his  robbers  had  taken 
a  iady  prisoner,  came  to  console  and  relieve  her. 

Proteus  was  courting  Silvia,  and  he  was  so  much  ashamed  of 
being  caught  by  his  friend  that  he  was  all  at  once  seized  with 
penitence  and  remorse;  and  he  expressed  such  a  lively  sorrow  for 
the  injuries  he  had  done  to  Valentine  that  Valentine,  whose 
nature  was  noble  and  generous,  even  to  a  romantic  degree,  not 
only  forgave  and  restored  him  to  his  former  place  in  his  friendship, 
but  in  a  sudden  flight  of  heroism  he  said: 

"I  freely  do  forgive  you;  and  all  the  interest  I  have  in  Silvia  I 
give  it  up  to  you.'* 

Julia,  who  was  standing  beside  her  master  as  a  page,  hearing 
this  strange  offer,  and  fearing  Proteus  would  not  be  able  with 
this  new-found  virtue  to  refuse  Silvia,  fainted;  and  they  were  all 
employed  in  recovering  her,  else  would  Silvia  have  been  offended 
at  being  thus  made  over  to  Proteus,  though  she  could  scarcely 
think  that  Valentine  would  long  persevere  in  this  overstrained 
and  too  generous  act  of  friendship.  When  Julia  recovered  from 
the  fainting  fit,  she  said: 

"I  had  forgot,  my  master  ordered  me  to  deliver  this  ring  to 
Silvia." 

Proteus,  looking  upon  the  ring,  saw  that  it  was  the  one  he  gave 
to  Julia  in  return  for  that  which  he  received  from  her  and 
which  he  had  sent  by  the  supposed  page  to  Silvia. 

"How  is  this?"  said  he.  "This  is  Julia's  ring.  How  came 
you  by  it,  boy?" 

Julia  answered,  "Julia  herself  did  give  it  me,  and  Julia  herself 
hath  brought  it  hither." 

Proteus,  now  looking  earnestly  upon  her,  plainly  perceived 

[102] 


SHAKESPEARE 

that  the  page  Sebastian  was  no  other  than  the  Lady  Julia  herself; 
and  the  proof  she  had  given  of  her  constancy  and  true  love  so 
wrought  in  him  that  his  love  for  her  returned  into  his  heart,  and 
he  took  again  his  own  dear  lady  and  joyfully  resigned  all  pre- 
tensions to  the  Lady  Silvia  to  Valentine,  who  had  so  well  de- 
served her. 

Proteus  and  Valentine  were  expressing  their  happiness  in 
their  reconciliation,  and  in  the  love  of  their  faithful  ladies,  when 
they  were  surprised  with  the  sight  of  the  Duke  of  Milan  and 
Thurio,  who  came  there  in  pursuit  of  Silvia. 

Thurio  first  approached,  and  attempted  to  seize  Silvia,  saying, 
"Silvia  is  mine." 

Upon  this  Valentine  said  to  him  in  a  very  spirited  manner: 
"Thurio,  keep  back.  If  once  again  you  say  that  Silvia  is  yours, 
you  shall  embrace  your  death.  Here  she  stands,  take  but  posses- 
sion of  her  with  a  touch !  I  dare  you  but  to  breathe  upon  my 
love." 

Hearing  this  threat,  Thurio,  who  was  a  great  coward,  drew 
back,  and  said  he  cared  not  for  her  and  that  none  but  a  fool 
would  fight  for  a  girl  who  loved  him  not. 

The  duke,  who  was  a  very  brave  man  himself,  said  now,  in 
great  anger,  "The  more  base  and  degenerate  in  you  to  take 
such  means  for  her  as  you  have  done  and  leave  her  on  such  slight 
conditions." 

Then  turning  to  Valentine  he  said:  "I  do  applaud  your  spirit, 
Valentine,  and  think  you  worthy  of  an  empress's  love.  You 
shall  have  Silvia,  for  you  have  well  deserved  her." 

Valentine  then  with  great  humility  kissed  the  duke's  hand  and 
accepted  the  noble  present  which  he  had  made  him  of  his  daughter 
with  becoming  thankfulness,  taking  occasion  of  this  joyful  minute 
to  entreat  the  good-humored  duke  to  pardon  the  thieves  with 
whom  he  had  associated  in  the  forest,  assuring  him  that  when 
reformed  and  restored  to  society  there  would  be  found  among 
them  many  good,  and  fit  for  great  employment;  for  the  most  of 
them  had  been  banished,  like  Valentine,  for  state  offenses,  rather 

[103] 


TALES    FR©M 

than  for  any  black  crimes  they  had  been  guilty  of.  To  this  the 
ready  duke  consented.  And  now  nothing  remained  but  that 
Proteus,  the  false  friend,  was  ordained,  by  way  of  penance  for 
his  love-prompted  faults,  to  be  present  at  the  recital  of  the  whole 
story  of  his  loves  and  falsehoods  before  the  duke.  And  the 
shame  of  the  recital  to  his  awakened  conscience  was  judged  suf- 
ficient punishment;  which  being  done,  the  lovers,  all  four,  re- 
turned back  to  Milan,  and  their  nuptials  were  solemnized  in  the 
presence  of  the  duke,  with  high  triumphs  and  feasting. 


SHAKESPEARE 


MERCHANT  OF   VENICE 


HYLOCK,  the  Jew,  lived  at  Venice.  He 
was  a  usurer  who  had  amassed  an  im- 
mense fortune  by  lending  money  at 
great  interest  to  Christian  merchants. 
Shylock,  being  a  hard-hearted  man, 
exacted  the  payment  of  the  money  he 
lent  with  such  severity  that  he  was 
much  disliked  by  all  good  men,  and 
particularly  by  Antonio,  a  young  mer- 
chant of  Venice;  and  Shylock  as  much  hated  Antonio,  because 
he  used  to  lend  money  to  people  in  distress,  and  would  never 
take  any  interest  for  the  money  he  lent;  therefore  there  was 
great  enmity  between  this  covetous  Jew  and  the  generous  mer- 
chant Antonio.  Whenever  Antonio  met  Shylock  on  the  Rialto 
(or  Exchange)  he  used  to  reproach  him  with  his  usuries  and 
hard  dealings,  which  the  Jew  would  bear  with  seeming  patience, 
while  he  secretly  meditated  revenge. 

Antonio  was  the  kindest  man  that  lived,  the  best  conditioned, 
and  had  the  most  unwearied  spirit  in  doing  courtesies;  indeed, 
he  was  one  in  whom  the  ancient  Roman  honor  more  appeared 
than  in  any  that  drew  breath  in  Italy.  He  was  greatly  beloved 
by  all  his  fellow-citizens;  but  the  friend  who  was  nearest  and 
dearest  to  his  heart  was  Bassanio,  a  noble  Venetian,  who,  having 
but  a  small  patrimony,  had  nearly  exhausted  his  little  fortune 
by  living  in  too  expensive  a  manner  for  his  slender  means,  as 
young  men  of  high  rank  with  small  fortunes  are  too  apt  to  do. 
Whenever  Bassanio  wanted  money  Antonio  assisted  him;  and 
it  seemed  as  if  they  had  but  one  heart  and  one  purse  between  them. 
One  day  Bassanio  came  to  Antonio  and  told  him  that  he  wished 

[  <°5 1 


TALES    FROM 

to  repair  his  fortune  by  a  wealthy  marriage  with  a  lady  whom  he 
dearly  loved,  whose  father,  that  was  lately  dead,  had  left  her  sole 
heiress  to  a  large  estate;  and  that  in  her  father's  lifetime  he 
used  to  visit  at  her  house,  when  he  thought  he  had  observed  this 
lady  had  sometimes  from  her  eyes  sent  speechless  messages  that 
seemed  to  say  he  would  be  no  unwelcome  suitor;  but  not  having 
money  to  furnish  himself  with  an  appearance  befitting  the  lover 
of  so  rich  an  heiress,  he  besought  Antonio  to  add  to  the  many 
favors  he  had  shown  him  by  lending  him  three  thousand  ducats. 

Antonio  had  no  money  by  him  at  that  time  to  lend  his  friend; 
but  expecting  soon  to  have  some  ships  come  home  laden  with 
merchandise,  he  said  he  would  go  to  Shylock,  the  rich  money- 
lender, and  borrow  the  money  upon  the  credit  of  those  ships. 

Antonio  and  Bassanio  went  together  to  Shylock,  and  Antonio 
asked  the  Jew  to  lend  him  three  thousand  ducats  upon  any 
interest  he  should  require,  to  be  paid  out  of  the  merchandise 
contained  in  his  ships  at  sea. 

On  this,  Shylock  thought  within  himself:  "If  I  can  once 
catch  him  on  the  hip,  I  will  feed  fat  the  ancient  grudge  I  bear 
him.  He  hates  our  Jewish  nation;  he  lends  out  money  gratis; 
and  among  the  merchants  he  rails  at  me  and  my  well-earned 
bargains,  which  he  calls  interest.  Cursed  be  my  tribe  if  I  for- 
give him!" 

Antonio,  finding  he  was  musing  within  himself  and  did  not 
answer,  and  being  impatient  for  the  money,  said: 

"Shylock,  do  you  hear?     Will  you  lend  the  money?'* 

To  this  question  the  Jew  replied:  "Signor  Antonio,  on  the 
Rialto  many  a  time  and  often  you  have  railed  at  me  about  my 
moneys  and  my  usuries,  and  I  have  borne  it  with  a  patient  shrug, 
for  sufferance  is  the  badge  of  all  our  tribe;  and  then  you  have 
called  me  unbeliever,  cutthroat  dog,  and  spit  upon  my  Jewish 
garments,  and  spurned  at  me  with  your  foot,  as  if  I  was  a  cur. 
Well,  then,  it  now  appears  you  need  my  help,  and  you  come  to 
me  and  say,  'Shylock,  lend  me  moneys.'  Has  a  dog  money? 
Is  it  possible  a  cur  should  lend  three  thousand  ducats?     Shall 

f  106} 


SHAKESPEARE 

I  bend  low  and  say,  'Fair  sir,  you  spit  upon  me  on  Wednesday 
last;  another  time  you  called  me  dog,  and  for  these  courtesies 
I  am  to  lend  you  moneys.' " 

Antonio  replied:   "I  am  as  like  to  call  you  so  again,  to  spit  on 
you  again,  and  spurn  you,  too.     If  you  will  lend  me  this  money, 


lend  it  not  to  me  as  to  a  friend,  but  rather  lend  it  to  me  as  to  an 
enemy,  that,  if  I  break,  you  may  with  better  face  exact  the 
penalty." 

"Why,  look  you,"  said  Shylock,  "how  you  storm!  I  would 
be  friends  with  you  and  have  your  love.  I  will  forget  the  shames 
you  have  put  upon  me.  I  will  supply  your  wants  and  take  no 
interest  for  my  money." 

This  seemingly  kind  offer  greatly  surprised  Antonio;  and  then 
Shylock,  still  pretending  kindness  and  that  all  he  did  was  to  gain 
Antonio's  love,  again  said  he  would  lend  him  the  three  thousand 
ducats,  and  take  no  interest  for  his  money;  only  Antonio  should 
go  with  him  to  a  lawyer  and  there  sign  in  merry  sport  a  bond 
that,  if  he  did  not  repay  the  money  by  a  certain  day,  he  would 
forfeit  a  pound  of  flesh,  to  be  cut  off  from  any  part  of  his  body 
that  Shylock  pleased. 

"Content,"  said  Antonio.  "I  will  sign  to  this  bond,  and  say 
there  is  much  kindness  in  the  Jew." 

[107] 


TALES    FROM 

Bassanio  said  Antonio  should  not  sign  to  such  a  bond  for  him; 
but  still  Antonio  insisted  that  he  would  sign  it,  for  that  before 
the  day  of  payment  came  his  ships  would  return  laden  with 
many  times  the  value  of  the  money. 

Shylock,  hearing  this  debate,  exclaimed:  "0  Father  Abraham, 
what  suspicious  people  these  Christians  are!  Their  own  hard 
dealings  teach  them  to  suspect  the  thoughts  of  others.  I  pray 
you  tell  me  this,  Bassanio:  if  he  should  break  his  day,  what  should 
I  gain  by  the  exaction  of  the  forfeiture?  A  pound  of  man's  flesh, 
taken  from  a  man,  is  not  so  estimable,  profitable,  neither,  as  the 
flesh  of  mutton  or  beef.  I  say,  to  buy  his  favor  I  offer  this 
friendship:  if  he  will  take  it,  so;  if  not,  adieu." 

At  last,  against  the  advice  of  Bassanio,  who,  notwithstanding 
all  the  Jew  had  said  of  his  kind  intentions,  did  not  like  his  friend 
should  run  the  hazard  of  this  shocking  penalty  for  his  sake, 
Antonio  signed  the  bond,  thinking  it  really  was  (as  the  Jew 
said)  merely  in  sport. 

The  rich  heiress  that  Bassanio  wished  to  marry  lived  near 
Venice,  at  a  place  called  Belmont.  Her  name  was  Portia,  and 
in  the  graces  of  her  person  and  her  mind  she  was  nothing  inferior 
to  that  Portia,  of  whom  we  read,  who  was  Cato's  daughter  and 
the  wife  of  Brutus. 

Bassanio  being  so  kindly  supplied  with  money  by  his  friend 
Antonio,  at  the  hazard  of  his  life,  set  out  for  Belmont  with  a 
splendid  train  and  attended  by  a  gentleman  of  the  name  of 
Gratiano. 

Bassanio  proving  successful  in  his  suit,  Portia  in  a  short  time 
consented  to  accept  of  him  for  a  husband. 

Bassanio  confessed  to  Portia  that  he  had  no  fortune  and  that 

his  high  birth  and  noble  ancestry  were  all  that  he  could  boast  of; 

she,  who  loved  him  for  his  worthy  qualities  and  had  riches 

enough  not  to  regard  wealth  in  a  husband,  answered,  with  a 

graceful  modesty,  that  she  would  wish  herself  a  thousand  times 

more  fair,  and  ten  thousand  times  more  rich,  to  be  more  worthy 

of  him;    and  then  the  accomplished  Portia  prettily  dispraised 

[  108] 


SHAKESPEARE 

herself  and  said  she  was  an  unlessoned  girl,  unschooled,  un- 
practised, yet  not  so  old  but  that  she  could  learn,  and  that  she 
would  commit  her  gentle  spirit  to  be  directed  and  governed  by 
him  in  all  things;   and  she  said:   "Myself  and  what  is  mine  to 


you  and  yours  is  now  converted.  But  yesterday,  Bassanio,  I 
was  the  lady  of  this  fair  mansion,  queen  of  myself,  and  mistress 
over  these  servants;  and  now  this  house,  these  servants,  and 
myself  are  yours,  my  lord;  I  give  them  with  this  ring,"  presenting 
a  ring  to  Bassanio. 

Bassanio  was  so  overpowered  with  gratitude  and  wonder  at  the 
gracious  manner  in  which  the  rich  and  noble  Portia  accepted  of 
a  man  of  his  humble  fortunes  that  he  could  not  express  his  joy 

[109] 


TALES    FROM 

and  reverence  to  the  dear  lady  who  so  honored  him,  by  anything 
but  broken  words  of  love  and  thankfulness;  and,  taking  the  ring, 
he  vowed  never  to  part  with  it. 

Gratiano  and  Nerissa,  Portia's  waiting-maid,  were  in  attendance 
upon  their  lord  and  lady  when  Portia  so  gracefully  promised  to 
become  the  obedient  wife  of  Bassanio;  and  Gratiano,  wishing 
Bassanio  and  the  generous  lady  joy,  desired  permission  to  be 
married  at  the  same  time. 

"With  all  my  heart,  Gratiano,"  said  Bassanio,  "if  you  can  get 
a  wife." 

Gratiano  then  said  that  he  loved  the  Lady  Portia's  fair  waiting- 
gentlewoman,  Nerissa,  and  that  she  had  promised  to  be  his  wife 
if  her  lady  married  Bassanio.  Portia  asked  Nerissa  if  this  was 
true.     Nerissa  replied: 

"Madam,  it  is  so,  if  you  approve  of  it." 

Portia  willingly  consenting,  Bassanio  pleasantly  said: 

"Then  our  wedding-feast  shall  be  much  honored  by  your  mar- 
riage, Gratiano." 

The  happiness  of  these  lovers  was  sadly  crossed  at  this  moment 
by  the  entrance  of  a  messenger,  who  brought  a  letter  from  Antonio 
containing  fearful  tidings.  When  Bassanio  read  Antonio's  letter, 
Portia  feared  it  was  to  tell  him  of  the  death  of  some  dear  friend, 
he  looked  so  pale;  and,  inquiring  what  was  the  news  which  had 
so  distressed  him,  he  said: 

"Oh,  sweet  Portia,  here  are  a  few  of  the  unpleasantest  words 
that  ever  blotted  paper!  Gentle  lady,  when  I  first  imparted 
my  love  to  you,  I  freely  told  you  all  the  wealth  I  had  ran  in  my 
veins;  but  I  should  have  told  you  that  I  had  less  than  nothing, 
being  in  debt." 

Bassanio  then  told  Portia  what  has  been  here  related,  of  his 
borrowing  the  money  of  Antonio,  and  of  Antonio's  procuring  it 
of  Shylock  the  Jew,  and  of  the  bond  by  which  Antonio  had 
engaged  to  forfeit  a  pound  of  flesh  if  it  was  not  repaid  by  a  certain 
day:  and  then  Bassanio  read  Antonio's  letter,  the  words  of  which 
were: 

[HO] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Sweet  Bassanio,  my  ships  are  all  lost,  my  bond  to  the  Jew  is  forfeited,  and 
since  in  paying  it  is  impossible  I  should  live,  I  could  wish  to  see  you  at  my 
death;  notwithstanding,  use  your  pleasure.  If  your  love  for  me  do  not  persuade 
you  to  come,  let  not  my  letter. 

"Oh,  my  dear  love,"  said  Portia,  "despatch  all  business  and 
begone;  you  shall  have  gold  to  pay  the  money  twenty  times 
over,  before  this  kind  friend  shall  lose  a  hair  by  my  Bassanio's 
fault;  and  as  you  are  so  dearly  bought,  I  will  dearly  love  you." 

Portia  then  said  she  would  be  married  to  Bassanio  before  he  set 
out,  to  give  him  a  legal  right  to  her  money;  and  that  same  day 
they  were  married,  and  Gratiano  was  also  married  to  Nerissa; 
and  Bassanio  and  Gratiano,  the  instant  they  were  married,  set 
out  in  great  haste  for  Venice,  where  Bassanio  found  Antonio  in 
prison. 

The  day  of  payment  being  past,  the  cruel  Jew  would  not 
accept  of  the  money  which  Bassanio  offered  him,  but  insisted 
upon  having  a  pound  of  Antonio's  flesh.  A  day  was  appointed 
to  try  this  shocking  cause  before  the  Duke  of  Venice,  and  Bassanio 
awaited  in  dreadful  suspense  the  event  of  the  trial. 

When  Portia  parted  with  her  husband  she  spoke  cheeringly 
to  him  and  bade  him  bring  his  dear  friend  along  with  him  when 
he  returned;  yet  she  feared  it  would  go  hard  with  Antonio,  and 
when  she  was  left  alone  she  began  to  think  and  consider  within 
herself  if  she  could  by  any  means  be  instrumental  in  saving  the 
life  of  her  dear  Bassanio's  friend.  And  notwithstanding  when 
she  wished  to  honor  her  Bassanio  she  had  said  to  him,  with 
such  a  meek  and  wifelike  grace,  that  she  would  submit  in  all 
things  to  be  governed  by  his  superior  wisdom,  yet  being  now 
called  forth  into  action  by  the  peril  of  her  honored  husband's 
friend,  she  did  nothing  doubt  her  own  powers,  and  by  the  sole 
guidance  of  her  own  true  and  perfect  judgment  at  once  resolved 
to  go  herself  to  Venice  and  speak  in  Antonio's  defense. 

Portia  had  a  relation  who  was  a  counselor  in  the  law;  to  this 
gentleman,  whose  name  was  Bellario,  she  wrote,  and,  stating 
the  case  to  him,  desired  his  opinion,  and  that  with  his  advice 

[m] 


TALES    FROM 

he  would  also  send  her  the  dress  worn  by  a  counselor.  When  the 
messenger  returned  he  brought  letters  from  Bellario  of  advice 
how  to  proceed,  and  also  everything  necessary  for  her  equipment. 

Portia  dressed  herself  and  her  maid  Nerissa  in  men's  apparel, 
and,  putting  on  the  robes  of  a  counselor,  she  took  Nerissa  along 
with  her  as  her  clerk;  setting  out  immediately,  they  arrived  at 
Venice  on  the  very  day  of  the  trial.  The  cause  was  just  going 
to  be  heard  before  the  Duke  and  Senators  of  Venice  in  the  Senate 
House  when  Portia  entered  this  high  court  of  justice  and  presented 
a  letter  from  Bellario,  in  which  that  learned  counselor  wrote  to 
the  duke,  saying  he  would  have  come  himself  to  plead  for 
Antonio  but  that  he  was  prevented  by  sickness,  and  he  requested 
that  the  learned  young  Doctor  Balthasar  (so  he  called  Portia) 
might  be  permitted  to  plead  in  his  stead.  This  the  duke 
granted,  much  wondering  at  the  youthful  appearance  of  the 
stranger,  who  was  prettily  disguised  by  her  counselor's  robes 
and  her  large  wig. 

And  now  began  this  important  trial.  Portia  looked  around  her 
and  she  saw  the  merciless  Jew;  and  she  saw  Bassanio,  but  he 
knew  her  not  in  her  disguise.  He  was  standing  beside  Antonio, 
in  an  agony  of  distress  and  fear  for  his  friend. 

The  importance  of  the  arduous  task  Portia  had  engaged  in  gave 
this  tender  lady  courage,  and  she  boldly  proceeded  in  the  duty 
she  had  undertaken  to  perform.  And  first  of  all  she  addressed 
herself  to  Shylock;  and  allowing  that  he  had  a  right  by  the 
Venetian  law  to  have  the  forfeit  expressed  in  the  bond,  she  spoke 
so  sweetly  of  the  noble  quality  of  mercy  as  would  have  softened 
any  heart  but  the  unfeeling  Shylock's,  saying  that  it  dropped  as 
the  gentle  rain  from  heaven  upon  the  place  beneath;  and  how 
mercy  was  a  double  blessing,  it  blessed  him  that  gave  and  him 
that  received  it;  and  how  it  became  monarchs  better  than  their 
crowns,  being  an  attribute  of  God  Himself;  and  that  earthly 
power  came  nearest  to  God's  in  proportion  as  mercy  tempered 
justice;  and  she  bade  Shylock  remember  that  as  we  all  pray  for 
mercy,  that  same  prayer  should  teach  us  to  show  mercy.     Shy- 


SHAKESPEARE 

lock  only  answered  her  by  desiring  to  have  the  penalty  forfeited 
in  the  bond. 

"Is  he  not  able  to  pay  the  money?"  asked  Portia. 

Bassanio  then  offered  the  Jew  the  payment  of  the  three  thou- 
sand ducats  as  many  times  over 
as  he  should  desire;  which  Shy- 
lock  refusing,  and  still  insisting 
upon  having  a  pound  of  Antonio's 
flesh,  Bassanio  begged  the  learned 
young  counselor  would  endeavor 
to  wrest  the  law  a  little,  to  save 
Antonio's  life.  But  Portia  gravely 
answered  that  laws  once  established 
must  never  be  altered.  Shylock 
hearing  Portia  say  that  the  law 
might  not  be  altered,  it  seemed  to 
him  that  she  was  pleading  in  his 
favor,  and  he  said: 

"A  Daniel  is  come  to  judgment! 
O  wise  young  judge,  how  I  do  honor 
you!  How  much  elder  are  you 
than  your  looks!" 

Portia  now  desired  Shylock  to  let 
her  look  at  the  bond;  and  when  she 
had  read  it  she  said:  "This  bond  is 
forfeited,  and  by  this  the  Jew  may 
lawfully  claim  a  pound  of  flesh,  to 
be  by  him  cut  off  nearest  Antonio's 
heart."  Then  she  said  to  Shylock, 
money  and  bid  me  tear  the  bond." 

But  no  mercy  would  the  cruel  Shylock  show;  and  he  said, 
"By  my  soul,  I  swear  there  is  no  power  in  the  tongue  of  man  to 
alter  me." 

"Why,  then,  Antonio,"  said  Portia,  "you  must  prepare  your 
bosom  for  the  knife."     And  while  Shylock  was  sharpening  a 
S  [113] 


Be   merciful;   take    the 


TALES    FROM 

long  knife  with  great  eagerness  to  cut  off  the  pound  of  flesh, 
Portia  said  to  Antonio,  "Have  you  anything  to  say?" 

Antonio  with  a  calm  resignation  replied  that  he  had  but  little 
to  say,  for  that  he  had  prepared  his  mind  for  death.  Then  he 
said  to  Bassanio: 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Bassanio!  Fare  you  well!  Grieve  not 
that  I  am  fallen  into  this  misfortune  for  you.  Commend  me  to 
your  honorable  wife  and  tell  her  how  I  have  loved  you!" 

Bassanio  in  the  deepest  affliction  replied:  "Antonio,  I  am  mar- 
ried to  a  wife  who  is  as  dear  to  me  as  life  itself;  but  life  itself, 
my  wife,  and  all  the  world  are  not  esteemed  with  me  above  your 
life.  I  would  lose  all,  I  would  sacrifice  all  to  this  devil  here,  to 
deliver  you." 

Portia  hearing  this,  though  the  kind-hearted  lady  was  not  at 
all  offended  with  her  husband  for  expressing  the  love  he  owed 
to  so  true  a  friend  as  Antonio  in  these  strong  terms,  yet  could 
not  help  answering: 

"Your  wife  would  give  you  little  thanks,  if  she  were  present,  to 
hear  you  make  this  offer." 

And  then  Gratiano,  who  loved  to  copy  what  his  lord  did, 
thought  he  must  make  a  speech  like  Bassanio's,  and  he  said,  in 
Nerissa's  hearing,  who  was  writing  in  her  clerk's  dress  by  the  side 
of  Portia: 

"I  have  a  wife  whom  I  protest  I  love.  I  wish  she  were  in 
heaven  if  she  could  but  entreat  some  power  there  to  change  the 
cruel  temper  of  this  currish  Jew." 

"It  is  well  you  wish  this  behind  her  back,  else  you  would  have 
but  an  unquiet  house,"  said  Nerissa. 

Shylock  now  cried  out,  impatiently:  "We  trifle  time.  I  pray 
pronounce  the  sentence." 

And  now  all  was  awful  expectation  in  the  court,  and  every 
heart  was  full  of  grief  for  Antonio. 

Portia  asked  if  the  scales  were  ready  to  weigh  the  flesh;  and 
she  said  to  the  Jew,  "Shylock,  you  must  have  some  surgeon  by, 
lest  he  bleed  to  death." 

[114] 


« TARRY  A  LITTLE,  JEW,"  SAID   PORTIA.    "THIS  BOND 
HERE  GIVES  YOU  NO  DROP  OF  BLOOD" 


SHAKESPEARE 

Shylock,  whose  whole  intent  was  that  Antonio  should  bleed  to 
death,  said,  "It  is  not  so  named  in  the  bond." 

Portia  replied:  "It  is  not  so  named  in  the  bond,  but  what  of 
that?     It  were  good  you  did  so  much  for  charity." 

To  this  all  the  answer  Shylock  would  make  was,  "I  cannot  find 
it;  it  is  not  in  the  bond." 

"Then,"  said  Portia,  "a  pound  of  Antonio's  flesh  is  thine. 
The  law  allows  it  and  the  court  awards  it.  And  you  may  cut 
this  flesh  from  off  his  breast.  The  law  allows  it  and  the  court 
awards  it." 

Again  Shylock  exclaimed:  "O  wise  and  upright  judge!  A 
Daniel  is  come  to  judgment!"  And  then  he  sharpened  his  long 
knife  again,  and  looking  eagerly  on  Antonio,  he  said,  "Come, 
prepare!" 

"Tarry  a  little,  Jew,"  said  Portia.  "There  is  something  else. 
This  bond  here  gives  you  no  drop  of  blood;  the  words  expressly 
are,  'a  pound  of  flesh/  If  in  the  cutting  off  the  pound  of  flesh 
you  shed  one  drop  of  Christian  blood,  your  lands  and  goods  are 
by  the  law  to  be  confiscated  to  the  state  of  Venice." 

Now  as  it  was  utterly  impossible  for  Shylock  to  cut  off  the 
pound  of  flesh  without  shedding  some  of  Antonio's  blood,  this 
wise  discovery  of  Portia's,  that  it  was  flesh  and  not  blood  that 
was  named  in  the  bond,  saved  the  life  of  Antonio;  and  all  admir- 
ing the  wonderful  sagacity  of  the  young  counselor  who  had  so 
happily  thought  of  this  expedient,  plaudits  resounded  from  every 
part  of  the  Senate  House;  and  Gratiano  exclaimed,  in  the  words 
which  Shylock  had  used: 

"O  wise  and  upright  judge!  Mark,  Jew,  a  Daniel  is  come  to 
judgment!" 

Shylock,  finding  himself  defeated  in  his  cruel  intent,  said,  with 
a  disappointed  look,  that  he  would  take  the  money.  And 
Bassanio,  rejoiced  beyond  measure  at  Antonio's  unexpected  de- 
liverance, cried  out: 

"Here  is  the  money!" 

But  Portia  stopped  him,  saying:  "Softly; "there  is  no  haste. 

[117] 


TALES    FROM 

The  Jew  shall  have  nothing  but  the  penalty.  Therefore  prepare, 
Shylock,  to  cut  off  the  flesh;  but  mind  you  shed  no  blood;  nor 
do  not  cut  off  more  nor  less  than  just  a  pound;  be  it  more  or  less 
by  one  poor  scruple,  nay,  if  the  scale  turn  but  by  the  weight  of  a 
single  hair,  you  are  condemned  by  the  laws  of  Venice  to  die,  and 
all  your  wealth  is  forfeited  to  the  state." 

"Give  me  my  money  and  let  me  go,"  said  Shylock. 

"I  have  it  ready,"  said  Bassanio.     "Here  it  is." 

Shylock  was  going  to  take  the  money,  when  Portia  again 
stopped  him,  saying:  "Tarry,  Jew.  I  have  yet  another  hold 
upon  you.  By  the  laws  of  Venice  your  wealth  is  forfeited  to  the 
state  for  having  conspired  against  the  life  of  one  of  its  citizens, 
and  your  life  lies  at  the  mercy  of  the  duke;  therefore,  down  on 
your  knees  and  ask  him  to  pardon  you." 

The  duke  then  said  to  Shylock:  "That  you  may  see  the  dif- 
ference of  our  Christian  spirit,  I  pardon  you  your  life  before  you 
ask  it.  Half  your  wealth  belongs  to  Antonio,  the  other  half 
comes  to  the  state." 

The  generous  Antonio  then  said  that  he  would  give  up  his  share 
of  Shylock's  wealth  if  Shylock  would  sign  a  deed  to  make  it  over 
at  his  death  to  his  daughter  and  her  husband;  for  Antonio  knew 
that  the  Jew  had  an  only  daughter  who  had  lately  married  against 
his  consent  a  young  Christian  named  Lorenzo,  a  friend  of  An- 
tonio's, which  had  so  offended  Shylock  that  he  had  disinherited 
her. 

The  Jew  agreed  to  this;  and  being  thus  disappointed  in  his 
revenge  and  despoiled  of  his  riches,  he  said:  "I  am  ill.  Let  me 
go  home.  Send  the  deed  after  me,  and  I  will  sign  over  half  my 
riches  to  my  daughter." 

"Get  thee  gone,  then,"  said  the  duke,  "and  sign  it;  and  if  you 
repent  your  cruelty  and  turn  Christian,  the  state  will  forgive 
you  the  fine  of  the  other  half  of  your  riches." 

The  duke  now  released  Antonio  and  dismissed  the  court.  He 
then  highly  praised  the  wisdom  and  ingenuity  of  the  young 
counselor  and  invited  him  home  to  dinner. 

[n8J 


SHAKESPEARE 

Portia,  who  meant  to  return  to  Belmont  before  her  husband, 
replied,  "I  humbly  thank  your  Grace,  but  I  must  away  directly." 

The  duke  said  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  leisure  to  stay  and  dine 
with  him,  and,  turning  to  Antonio,  he  added,  "Reward  this 
gentleman;  for  in  my  mind  you  are  much  indebted  to  him." 

The  duke  and  his  senators  left  the  court;  and  then  Bassanio 
said  to  Portia:  "Most  worthy  gentleman,  I  and  my  friend 
Antonio  have  by  your  wisdom  been  this  day  acquitted  of  grievous 
penalties,  and  I  beg  you  will  accept  of  the  three  thousand  ducats 
due  unto  the  Jew." 

"And  we  shall  stand  indebted  to  you  over  and  above,"  said 
Antonio,  "in  love  and  service  evermore." 

Portia  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  accept  the  money.  But 
upon  Bassanio  still  pressing  her  to  accept  of  some  reward,  she 
said: 

"Give  me  your  gloves.  I  will  wear  them  for  your  sake."  And 
then  Bassanio  taking  off  his  gloves,  she  espied  the  ring  which 
she  had  given  him  upon  his  finger.  Now  it  was  the  ring  the 
wily  lady  wanted  to  get  from  him  to  make  a  merry  jest  when  she 
saw  her  Bassanio  again,  that  made  her  ask  him  for  his  gloves; 
and  she  said,  when  she  saw  the  ring,  "And  for  your  love  I  will 
take  this  ring  from  you." 

Bassanio  was  sadly  distressed  that  the  counselor  should  ask 
him  for  the  only  thing  he  could  not  part  with,  and  he  replied,  in 
great  confusion,  that  he  could  not  give  him  that  ring,  because 
it  was  his  wife's  gift  and  he  had  vowed  never  to  part  with  it; 
but  that  he  would  give  him  the  most  valuable  ring  in  Venice, 
and  find  it  out  by  proclamation. 

On  this  Portia  affected  to  be  affronted,  and  left  the  court, 
saying,  "You  teach  me,  sir,  how  a  beggar  should  be  answered." 

"Dear  Bassanio,"  said  Antonio,  "let  him  have  the  ring.  Let 
my  love  and  the  great  service  he  has  done  for  me  be  valued 
against  your  wife's  displeasure." 

Bassanio,  ashamed  to  appear  so  ungrateful,  yielded,  and  sent 
Gratiano   after   Portia  with   the   ring;     and  then  the   "clerk," 

[119] 


'    TALES    FROM 

Nerissa,  who  had  also  given  Gratiano  a  ring,  begged  his  ring, 
and  Gratiano  (not  choosing  to  be  outdone  in  generosity  by  his 
lord)  gave  it  to  her.  And  there  was  laughing  among  these  ladies 
to  think,  when  they  got  home,  how  they  would  tax  their  husbands 
with  giving  away  their  rings  and  swear  that  they  had  given 
them  as  a  present  to  some  woman. 

Portia,  when  she  returned,  was  in  that  happy  temper  of  mind 
which  never  fails  to  attend  the  consciousness  of  having  performed 
a  good  action.  Her  cheerful  spirits  enjoyed  everything  she  saw: 
the  moon  never  seemed  to  shine  so  bright  before;  and  when  that 
pleasant  moon  was  hid  behind  a  cloud,  then  a  light  which  she 
saw  from  her  house  at  Belmont  as  well  pleased  her  charmed 
^  fancy,  and  she  said  to  Nerissa: 

"That  light  we  see  is  burning  in  my  hall.  How  far  that 
little  candle  throws  its  beams!  So  shines  a  good  deed  in  a 
naughty  world."  And  hearing  the  sound  of  music  from  her 
house,  she  said,  "Methinks  that  music  sounds  much  sweeter 
than  by  day." 

And  now  Portia  and  Nerissa  entered  the  house,  and,  dressing 
themselves  in  their  own  apparel,  they  awaited  the  arrival  of  their 
husbands,  who  soon  followed  them  with  Antonio;  and  Bassanio 
presenting  his  dear  friend  to  the  Lady  Portia,  the  congratulations 
and  welcomings  of  that  lady  were  hardly  over  when  they  per- 
ceived Nerissa  and  her  husband  quarreling  in  a  corner  of  the 
room. 

"A  quarrel  already?"  said  Portia.    "What  is  the  matter?" 

Gratiano  replied,  "Lady,  it  is  about  a  paltry  gilt  ring  that 
Nerissa  gave  me,  with  words  upon  it  like  the  poetry  on  a  cutler's 
knife:   'Love  me,  and  leave  me  not.'" 

"What  does  the  poetry  or  the  value  of  the  ring  signify?"  said 
Nerissa.  "You  swore  to  me,  when  I  gave  it  to  you,  that  you 
would  keep  it  till  the  hour  of  death;  and  now  you  say  you  gave  it 
to  the  lawyer's  clerk.     I  know  you  gave  it  to  a  woman." 

"By  this  hand,"  replied  Gratiano,  "I  gave  it  to  a  youth,  a  kind 
of  boy,  a  little  scrubbed  boy,  no  higher  than  yourself;   he  was 

[120] 


SHAKESPEARE 

clerk  to  the  young  counselor  that  by  his  wise  pleading  saved 
Antonio's  life.  This  prating  boy  begged  it  for  a  fee,  and  I  could 
not  for  my  life  deny  him." 

Portia  said:  "You  were  to  blame,  Gratiano,  to  part  with  your 
wife's  first  gift.  I  gave  my  Lord  Bassanio  a  ring,  and  I  am  sure 
he  would  not  part  with  it  for  all  the  world." 

Gratiano,  in  excuse  for  his  fault,  now  said,  "My  Lord  Bassanio 
gave  his  ring  away  to  the  counselor,  and  then  the  boy,  his  clerk, 
that  took  some  pains  in  writing,  he  begged  my  ring." 

Portia,  hearing  this,  seemed  very  angry  and  reproached 
Bassanio  for  giving  away  her  ring;  and  she  said  Nerissa  had 
taught  her  what  to  believe,  and  that  she  knew  some  woman  had 
the  ring.  Bassanio  was  very  unhappy  to  have  so  offended  his 
dear  lady,  and  he  said  with  great  earnestness: 

"No,  by  my  honor,  no  woman  had  it,  but  a  civil  doctor  who 
refused  three  thousand  ducats  of  me  and  begged  the  ring,  which 
when  I  denied  him  he  went  displeased  away.  What  could  I  do, 
sweet  Portia?  I  was  so  beset  with  shame  for  my  seeming  in- 
gratitude that  I  was  forced  to  send  the  ring  after  him.  Pardon 
me,  good  lady.  Had  you  been  there,  I  think  you  would  have 
begged  the  ring  of  me  to  give  the  worthy  doctor." 

"Ah!"  said  Antonio,  "I  am  the  unhappy  cause  of  these 
quarrels." 

Portia  bid  Antonio  not  to  grieve  at  that,  for  that  he  was  wel- 
come notwithstanding;    and  then  Antonio  said: 

"I  once  did  lend  my  body  for  Bassanio's  sake;  and  but  for 
him  to  whom  your  husband  gave  the  ring  I  should  have  now  been 
dead.  I  dare  be  bound  again,  my  soul  upon  the  forfeit,  your 
lord  will  never  more  break  his  faith  with  you." 

"Then  you  shall  be  his  surety,"  said  Portia.  "Give  him  this 
ring  and  bid  him  keep  it  better  than  the  other." 

When  Bassanio  looked  at  this  ring  he  was  strangely  surprised 
to  find  it  was  the  same  he  gave  away;  and  then  Portia  told  him 
how  she  was  the  young  counselor,  and  Nerissa  was  her  clerk; 
and  Bassanio  found,  to  his  unspeakable  wonder  and  delight,  that 

[121  J 


TALES    FROM 

it  was  by  the  noble  courage  and  wisdom  of  his  wife  that  An- 
tonio's life  was  saved. 

And  Portia  again  welcomed  Antonio,  and  gave  him  letters 
which  by  some  chance  had  fallen  into  her  hands,  which  contained 
an  account  of  Antonio's  ships,  that  were  supposed  lost,  being 
safely  arrived  in  the  harbor.  So  these  tragical  beginnings  of  this 
rich  merchant's  story  were  all  forgotten  in  the  unexpected  good 
fortune  which  ensued;  and  there  was  leisure  to  laugh  at  the 
comical  adventure  of  the  rings  and  the  husbands  that  did  not 
know  their  own  wives,  Gratiano  merrily  swearing,  in  a  sort  of 
rhyming  speech,  that — 

While  he  lived,  he'd  fear  no  other  thing 
So  sore,  as  keeping  safe  Nerissa's  ring. 


SHAKESPEARE 


CYMBELINE 


RING  the  time  of  Augustus  Caesar, 
Emperor  of  Rome,  there  reigned  in  Eng- 
land (which  was  then  called  Britain)  a 
king  whose  name  was  Cymbeline. 

Cymbeline's  first  wife  died  when  his 
three  children  (two  sons  and  a  daughter) 
were  very  young.  Imogen,  the  eldest  of 
these  children,  was  brought  up  in  her 
father's  court;  but  by  a  strange  chance 
the  two  sons  of  Cymbeline  were  stolen  out  of  their  nursery  when 
the  eldest  was  but  three  years  of  age  and  the  youngest  quite  an 
infant;  and  Cymbeline  could  never  discover  what  was  become  of 
them  or  by  whom  they  were  conveyed  away. 

Cymbeline  was  twice  married.  His  second  wife  was  a  wicked, 
plotting  woman,  and  a  cruel  stepmother  to  Imogen,  Cymbeline's 
daughter  by  his  first  wife. 

The  queen,  though  she  hated  Imogen,  yet  wished  her  to  marry  a 
son  of  her  own  by  a  former  husband  (she  also  having  been  twice 
married),  for  by  this  means  she  hoped  upon  the  death  of  Cymbe- 
line to  place  the  crown  of  Britain  upon  the  head  of  her  son  Cloten; 
for  she  knew  that,  if  the  king's  sons  were  not  found,  the  Princess 
Imogen  must  be  the  king's  heir.  But  this  design  was  prevented 
by  Imogen  herself,  who  married  without  the  consent  or  even 
knowledge  of  her  father  or  the  queen. 

Posthumus  (for  that  was  the  name  of  Imogen's  husband)  was 

the  best  scholar  and  most  accomplished  gentleman  of  that  age. 

His  father  died  fighting  in  the  wars  for  Cymbeline,  and  soon  after 

his  birth  his  mother  died  also  for  grief  at  the  loss  of  her  husband. 

Cymbeline,  pitying  the  helpless  state  of  this  orphan,  took 

[123] 


TALES    FROM 

Posthumus  (Cymbeline  having  given  him  that  name  because  he 
was  born  after  his  father's  death),  and  educated  him  in  his  own 
court. 

Imogen  and  Posthumus  were  both  taught  by  the  same  masters, 
and  were  playfellows  from  their  infancy;  they  loved  each  other 
tenderly  when  they  were  children,  and,  their  affection  continuing 
to  increase  with  their  years,  when  they  grew  up  they  privately 
married. 

The  disappointed  queen  soon  learned  this  secret,  for  she  kept 
spies  constantly  in  watch  upon  the  actions  of  her  stepdaughter, 
and  she  immediately  told  the  king  of  the  marriage  of  Imogen  with 
Posthumus. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  wrath  of  Cymbeline  when  he  heard 
that  his  daughter  had  been  so  forgetful  of  her  high  dignity  as  to 
marry  a  subject.  He  commanded  Posthumus  to  leave  Britain 
and  banished  him  from  his  native  country  forever. 

The  queen,  who  pretended  to  pity  Imogen  for  the  grief  she 
suffered  at  losing  her  husband,  offered  to  procure  them  a  private 
meeting  before  Posthumus  set  out  on  his  journey  to  Rome,  which 
place  he  had  chosen  for  his  residence  in  his  banishment.  This 
seeming  kindness  she  showed  the  better  to  succeed  in  her  future 
designs  in  regard  to  her  son  Cloten,  for  she  meant  to  persuade 
Imogen,  when  her  husband  was  gone,  that  her  marriage  was  not 
lawful,  being  contracted  without  the  consent  of  the  king. 

Imogen  and  Posthumus  took  a  most  affectionate  leave  of  each 
other.  Imogen  gave  her  husband  a  diamond  ring  which  had 
been  her  mother's,  and  Posthumus  promised  never  to  part  with 
the  ring;  and  he  fastened  a  bracelet  on  the  arm  of  his  wife, 
which  he  begged  she  would  preserve  with  great  care,  as  a  token 
of  his  love;  they  then  bade  each  other  farewell,  with  many  vows 
of  everlasting  love  and  fidelity. 

Imogen  remained  a  solitary  and  dejected  lady  in  her  father's 
court,  and  Posthumus  arrived  at  Rome,  the  place  he  had  chosen 
for  his  banishment. 

Posthumus  fell  into  company  at  Rome  with  some  gay  young 

[124] 


SHAKESPEARE 

men  of  different  nations,  who  were  talking  freely  of  ladies,  each 
one  praising  the  ladies  of  his  own  country  and  his  own  mistress. 
Posthumus,  who  had  ever  his  own  dear  lady  in  his  mind,  af- 


firmed that  his  wife,  the  fair  Imogen,  was  the  most  virtuous,  wise, 
and  constant  lady  in  the  world. 

One  of  those  gentlemen,  whose  name  was  Iachimo,  being 
offended  that  a  lady  of  Britain  should  be  so  praised  above  the 
Roman  ladies,  his  country-women,  provoked  Posthumus  by  seem- 
ing to  doubt  the  constancy  of  his  so  highly  praised  wife;  and  at 
length,  after  much  altercation,  Posthumus  consented  to  a  proposal 
of  Iachimo's  that  he  (Iachimo)  should  go  to  Britain  and  endeavor 
to  gain  the  love  of  the  married  Imogen.  They  then  laid  a  wager 
that  if  Iachimo  did  not  succeed  in  this  wicked  design  he  was 
to  forfeit  a  large  sum  of  money;    but  if  he  could  win  Imogen's 

[125] 


TALES    FROM 

favor,  and  prevail  upon  her  to  give  him  the  bracelet  which 
Posthumus  had  so  earnestly  desired  she  would  keep  as  a  token 
of  his  love,  then  the  wager  was  to  terminate  with  Posthumus 
giving  to  Iachimo  the  ring  which  was  Imogen's  love  present  when 
she  parted  with  her  husband.  Such  firm  faith  had  Posthumus  in 
the  fidelity  of  Imogen  that  he  thought  he  ran  no  hazard  in  this 
trial  of  her  honor. 

Iachimo,  on  his  arrival  in  Britain,  gained  admittance  and  a 
courteous  welcome  from  Imogen,  as  a  friend  of  her  husband; 
but  when  he  began  to  make  professions  of  love  to  her  she  repulsed 
him  with  disdain,  and  he  soon  found  that  he  could  have  no  hope 
of  succeeding  in  his  dishonorable  design. 

The  desire  Iachimo  had  to  win  the  wager  made  him  now  have 
recourse  to  a  stratagem  to  impose  upon  Posthumus,  and  for  this 
purpose  he  bribed  some  of  Imogen's  attendants  and  was  by  them 
conveyed  into  her  bedchamber,  concealed  in  a  large  trunk,  where 
he  remained  shut  up  till  Imogen  was  retired  to  rest  and  had 
fallen  asleep;  and  then,  getting  out  of  the  trunk,  he  examined  the 
chamber  with  great  attention,  and  wrote  down  everything  he 
saw  there,  and  particularly  noticed  a  mole  which  he  observed 
upon  Imogen's  neck,  and  then  softly  unloosing  the  bracelet 
from  her  arm,  which  Posthumus  had  given  to  her,  he  retired 
into  the  chest  again;  and  the  next  day  he  set  off  for  Rome 
with  great  expedition,  and  boasted  to  Posthumus  that  Imogen 
had  given  him  the  bracelet,  and  likewise  permitted  him  to 
pass  a  night  in  her  chamber.  And  in  this  manner  Iachimo 
told  his  false  tale:  "Her  bedchamber,"  said  he,  "was  hung 
with  tapestry  of  silk  and  silver,  the  story  was  the  proud 
Cleopatra  when  she  met  her  Anthony,  a  piece  of  work  most 
bravely  wrought." 

"This  is  true,"  said  Posthumus;  "but  this  you  might  have 
heard  spoken  of  without  seeing." 

"Then  the  chimney,"  said  Iachimo,  "is  south  of  the  chamber, 
and  the  chimneypiece  is  Diana  bathing;  never  saw  I  figures 
livelier  expressed." 

[126) 


SHAKESPEARE 

''This  is  a  thing  you  might  have  likewise  heard,"  said  Posthu- 
mus;   "for  it  is  much  talked  of." 

Iachimo  as  accurately  described  the  roof  of  the  chamber; 
and  added,  "I  had  almost  forgot  her  andirons;  they  were  tw^ 
winking  Cupids  made  of  silver,  each  on  one  foot  standing." 
He  then  took  out  the  bracelet,  and  said:  "Know  you  this  jewel, 
sir?  She  gave  me  this.  She  took  it  from  her  arm.  I  see  her  yet; 
her  pretty  action  did  outsell  her  gift,  and  yet  enriched  it,  too. 
She  gave  it  me,  and  said,  she  prized  it  once."  He  last  of  all 
described  the  mole  he  had  observed  upon  her  neck. 

Posthumus,  who  had  heard  the  whole  of  this  artful  recital  in 
an  agony  of  doubt,  now  broke  out  into  the  most  passionate  ex- 
clamations against  Imogen.  He  delivered  up  the  diamond  ring 
to  Iachimo  which  he  had  agreed  to  forfeit  to  him  if  he  obtained 
the  bracelet  from  Imogen. 

Posthumus  then  in  a  jealous  rage  wrote  to  Pisanio,  a  gentleman 
of  Britain,  who  was  one  of  Imogen's  attendants,  and  had  long 
been  a  faithful  friend  to  Posthumus;  and  after  telling  him  what 
proof  he  had  of  his  wife's  disloyalty,  he  desired  Pisanio  would  take 
Imogen  to  Milford  Haven,  a  seaport  of  Wales,  and  there  kill  her. 
And  at  the  same  time  he  wrote  a  deceitful  letter  to  Imogen, 
desiring  her  to  go  with  Pisanio,  for  that,  finding  he  could  live  no 
longer  without  seeing  her,  though  he  was  forbidden  upon  pain  of 
death  to  return  to  Britain,  he  would  come  to  Milford  Haven, 
at  which  place  he  begged  she  would  meet  him.  She,  good, 
unsuspecting  lady,  who  loved  her  husband  above  all  things,  and 
desired  more  than  her  life  to  see  him,  hastened  her  departure 
with  Pisanio,  and  the  same  night  she  received  the  letter  she  set 
out. 

When  their  journey  was  nearly  at  an  end,  Pisanio,  who, 
though  faithful  to  Posthumus,  was  not  faithful  to  serve  him  in 
an  evil  deed,  disclosed  to  Imogen  the  cruel  order  he  had  received. 

Imogen,  who,  instead  of  meeting  a  loving  and  beloved  husband, 
found  herself  doomed  by  that  husband  to  suffer  death,  was 
afflicted  beyond  measure. 

[127] 


TALES    FROM 

Pisanio  persuaded  her  to  take  comfort  and  wait  with  patient 
fortitude  for  the  time  when  Posthumus  should  see  and  repent 
his  injustice.  In  the  mean  time,  as  she  refused  in  her  distress 
to  return  to  her  father's  court,  he  advised  her  to  dress  herself  in 
boy's  clothes  for  more  security  in  traveling;  to  which  advice  she 
agreed,  and  thought  in  that  disguise  she  would  go  over  to  Rome 
and  see  her  husband,  whom,  though  he  had  used  her  so  bar- 
barously, she  could  not  forget  to  love. 

When  Pisanio  had  provided  her  with  her  new  apparel  he  left 
her  to  her  uncertain  fortune,  being  obliged  to  return  to  court; 
but  before  he  departed  he  gave  her  a  vial  of  cordial,  which  he  said 
the  queen  had  given  him  as  a  sovereign  remedy  in  all  disorders. 

The  queen,  who  hated  Pisanio  because  he  was  a  friend  to  Imo- 
gen and  Posthumus,  gave  him  this  vial,  which  she  supposed 
contained  poison,  she  having  ordered  her  physician  to  give  her 
some  poison,  to  try  its  effects  (as  she  said)  upon  animals;  but  the 
physician,  knowing  her  malicious  disposition,  would  not  trust 
her  with  real  poison,  but  gave  her  a  drug  which  would  do  no 
other  mischief  than  causing  a  person  to  sleep  with  every  appear- 
ance of  death  for  a  few  hours.  This  mixture,  which  Pisanio 
thought  a  choice  cordial,  he  gave  to  Imogen,  desiring  her,  if  she 
found  herself  ill  upon  the  road,  to  take  it;  and  so,  with  blessings 
and  prayers  for  her  safety  and  happy  deliverance  from  her  un- 
deserved troubles,  he  left  her. 

Providence  strangely  directed  Imogen's  steps  to  the  dwelling 
of  her  two  brothers  who  had  been  stolen  away  in  their  infancy. 
Bellarius,  who  stole  them  away,  was  a  lord  in  the  court  of  Cym- 
beline,  and,  having  been  falsely  accused  to  the  king  of  treason 
and  banished  from  the  court,  in  revenge  he  stole  away  the  two 
sons  of  Cymbeline  and  brought  them  up  in  a  forest,  where  he 
lived  concealed  in  a  cave.  He  stole  them  through  revenge,  but 
he  soon  loved  them  as  tenderly  as  if  they  had  been  his  own  chil- 
dren, educated  them  carefully,  and  they  grew  up  fine  youths, 
their  princely  spirits  leading  them  to  bold  and  daring  actions; 
and  as  they  subsisted  by  hunting,  they  were  active  and  hardy, 

[J28] 


SHAKESPEARE 

and  were  always  pressing  their  supposed  father  to  let  them  seek 
their  fortune  in  the  wars. 

At  the  cave  where  these  youths  dwelt  it  was  Imogen's  fortune 
to  arrive.  She  had  lost  her  way  in  a  large  forest  through  which 
her  road  lay  to 
Milford  Haven 
(from  which  she 
meant  to  embark 
for  Rome) ;  and 
being  unable  to 
find  any  place 
where  she  could 
purchase  food,  she 
was,  with  weari- 
ness and  hunger, 
almost  dying;  for 
it  is  not  merely 
putting  on  a  man's 
apparel  that  will 
enable  a  young 
lady,  tenderly 
brought  up,  to 
bear  the  fatigue  of 
wandering  about 
lonely  forests  like 
a  man.  Seeing 
this  cave,  she  en- 
tered, hoping  to 
find  some  one 
within  of  whom 
she  could  procure  food.  She  found  the  cave  empty,  but,  look- 
ing about,  she  discovered  some  cold  meat,  and  her  hunger  was  so 
pressing  that  she  could  not  wait  for  an  invitation,  but  sat  down 
and  began  to  eat. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  talking  to  herself,  "I  see  a  man's  life  is  a 
9  lI29l 


TALES    FROM 

tedious  one.  How  tired  am  I!  For  two  nights  together  I  have 
made  the  ground  my  bed.  My  resolution  helps  me,  or  I  should 
be  sick.  When  Pisanio  showed  me  Milford  Haven  from  the 
mountain-top,  how  near  it  seemed!"  Then  the  thoughts  of  her 
husband  and  his  cruel  mandate  came  across  her,  and  she  said, 
"My  dear  Posthumus,  thou  art  a  false  one!" 

The  two  brothers  of  Imogen,  who  had  been  hunting  with  their 
reputed  father,  Bellarius,  were  by  this  time  returned  home. 
Bellarius  had  given  them  the  names  of  Polydore  and  Cadwal, 
and  they  knew  no  better,  but  supposed  that  Bellarius  was  their 
father;  but  the  real  names  of  these  princes  were  Guiderius  and 
Arviragus. 

Bellarius  entered  the  cave  first,  and,  seeing  Imogen,  stopped 
them,  saying:  "Come  not  in  yet.  It  eats  our  victuals,  or  I  should 
think  it  was  a  fairy." 

"What  is  the  matter,  sir?"  said  the  young  men. 

"By  Jupiter!"  said  Bellarius,  again,  "there  is  an  angel  in  the 
cave,  or  if  not,  an  earthly  paragon."  So  beautiful  did  Imogen 
look  in  her  boy's  apparel. 

She,  hearing  the  sound  of  voices,  came  forth  from  the  cave 
and  addressed  them  in  these  words:  "Good  masters,  do  not 
harm  me.  Before  I  entered  your  cave  I  had  thought  to  have 
begged  or  bought  what  I  have  eaten.  Indeed,  I  have  stolen 
nothing,  nor  would  I,  though  I  had  found  gold  strewed  on  the 
floor.  Here  is  money  for  my  meat,  which  I  would  have  left  on 
the  board  when  I  had  made  my  meal,  and  parted  with  prayers 
for  the  provider." 

They  refused  her  money  with  great  earnestness. 

"I  see  you  are  angry  with  me,"  said  the  timid  Imogen;  "but, 
sirs,  if  you  kill  me  for  my  fault,  know  that  I  should  have  died  if  I 
had  not  made  it." 

"Whither  are  you  bound,"  asked  Bellarius,  "and  what  is  your 
name?" 

"Fidele  is  my  name,"  answered  Imogen.  "I  have  a  kinsman 
who  is  bound  for  Italy;    he  embarked  at  Milford  Haven,  to 

[130] 


IMOGEN:    "GOOD   MASTERS,    DO   NOT   HARM   ME" 


SHAKESPEARE 

whom  being  going,  almost  spent  with  hunger,  I  am  fallen  into  this 
offense." 

"Prithee,  fair  youth,"  said  old  Bellarius,  "do  not  think  us 
churls,  nor  measure  our  good  minds  by  this  rude  place  we  live  in. 
You  are  well  encountered;  it  is  almost  night.  You  shall  have 
better  cheer  before  you  depart,  and  thanks  to  stay  and  eat  it. 
Boys,  bid  him  welcome." 

The  gentle  youths,  her  brothers,  then  welcomed  Imogen  to  their 
cave  with  many  kind  expressions,  saying  they  would  love  her 
(or,  as  they  said,  him)  as  a  brother;  and  they  entered  the  cave, 
where  (they  having  killed  venison  when  they  were  hunting) 
Imogen  delighted  them  with  her  neat  housewifery,  assisting  them 
in  preparing  their  supper;  for,  though  it  is  not  the  custom  now 
for  young  women  of  high  birth  to  understand  cookery,  it  was 
then,  and  Imogen  excelled  in  this  useful  art;  and,  as  her  brothers 
prettily  expressed  it,  Fidele  cut  their  roots  in  characters,  and 
sauced  their  broth,  as  if  Juno  had  been  sick  and  Fidele  were  her 
dieter. 

"And  then,"  said  Polydore  to  his  brother,  "how  angel-like  he 
sings ! 

They  also  remarked  to  each  other  that  though  Fidele  smiled 
so  sweetly,  yet  so  sad  a  melancholy  did  overcloud  his  lovely 
face,  as  if  grief  and  patience  had  together  taken  possession 
of  him. 

For  these  her  gentle  qualities  (or  perhaps  it  was  their  near  re- 
lationship, though  they  knew  it  not)  Imogen  (or,  as  the  boys 
called  her,  Fidele)  became  the  doting-piece  of  her  brothers,  and 
she  scarcely  less  loved  them,  thinking  that  but  for  the  memory 
of  her  dear  Posthumus  she  could  live  and  die  in  the  cave  with 
these  wild  forest  youths;  and  she  gladly  consented  to  stay  with 
them  till  she  was  enough  rested  from  the  fatigue  of  traveling  to 
pursue  her  way  to  Milford  Haven. 

When  the  venison  they  had  taken  was  all  eaten  and  they  were 
going  out  to  hunt  for  more,  Fidele  could  not  accompany  them 
because  she  was  unwell.     Sorrow,  no  doubt,  for  her  husband's 

[i33] 


TALES    FROM 

cruel  usage,  as  well  as  the  fatigue  of  wandering  in  the  forest, 
was  the  cause  of  her  illness. 

They  then  bid  her  farewell,  and  went  to  their  hunt,  praising 
all  the  way  the  noble  parts  and  graceful  demeanor  of  the  youth 
Fidele. 

Imogen  was  no  sooner  left  alone  than  she  recollected  the  cordial 
Pisanio  had  given  her,  and  drank  it  off,  and  presently  fell  into  a 
sound  and  deathlike  sleep. 

When  Bellarius  and  her  brothers  returned  from  hunting, 
Polydore  went  first  into  the  cave,  and,  supposing  her  asleep, 
pulled  off  his  heavy  shoes,  that  he  might  tread  softly  and  not 
awake  her  (so  did  true  gentleness  spring  up  in  the  minds  of  these 
princely  foresters);  but  he  soon  discovered  that  she  could  not 
be  awakened  by  any  noise,  and  concluded  her  to  be  dead,  and 
Polydore  lamented  over  her  with  dear  and  brotherly  regret,  as 
if  they  had  never  from  their  infancy  been  parted. 

Bellarius  also  proposed  to  carry  her  out  into  the  forest,  and 
there  celebrate  her  funeral  with  songs  and  solemn  dirges,  as  was 
then  the  custom. 

Imogen's  two  brothers  then  carried  her  to  a  shady  covert,  and 
there,  laying  her  gently  on  the  grass,  they  sang  repose  to  her 
departed  spirit,  and,  covering  her  over  with  leaves  and  flowers, 
Polydore  said: 

"While  summer  lasts  and  I  live  here,  Fidele,  I  will  daily  strew 
thy  grave.  The  pale  primrose,  that  flower  most  like  thy  face; 
the  bluebell,  like  thy  clear  veins;  and  the  leaf  of  eglantine, 
which  is  not  sweeter  than  was  thy  breath — all  these  will  I  strew 
over  thee.  Yea,  and  the  furred  moss  in  winter,  when  there  are 
no  flowers  to  cover  thy  sweet  corse." 

When  they  had  finished  her  funeral  obsequies  they  departed, 
very  sorrowful. 

Imogen  had  not  been  long  left  alone  when,  the  effect  of  the 
sleepy  drug  going  off,  she  awaked,  and  easily  shaking  off  the 
slight  covering  of  leaves  and  flowers  they  had  thrown  over  her, 
she  arose,  and,  imagining  she  had  been  dreaming,  she  said: 

[134] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"I  thought  I  was  a  cave-keeper  and  cook  to  honest  creatures. 
How  came  I  here  covered  with  flowers  ?" 

Not  being  able  to  find  her  way  back  to  the  cave,  and  seeing 
nothing  of  her  new  companions,  she  concluded  it  was  certainly 
all  a  dream;  and  once  more  Imogen  set  out  on  her  weary  pil- 
grimage, hoping  at  last  she  should  find  her  way  to  Milford  Haven, 
and  thence  get  a  passage  in  some  ship  bound  for  Italy;  for  all 
her  thoughts  were  still  with  her  husband,  Posthumus,  whom  she 
intended  to  seek  in  the  disguise  of  a  page. 

But  great  events  were  happening  at  this  time,  of  which  Imogen 
knew  nothing;  for  a  war  had  suddenly  broken  out  between  the 
Roman  Emperor  Augustus  Caesar  and  Cymbeline,  the  King  of 
Britain;  and  a  Roman  army  had  landed  to  invade  Britain,  and 
was  advanced  into  the  very  forest  over  which  Imogen  was  jour- 
neying.    With  this  army  came  Posthumus. 

Though  Posthumus  came  over  to  Britain  with  the  Roman 
army,  he  did  not  mean  to  fight  on  their  side  against  his  own 
countrymen,  but  intended  to  join  the  army  of  Britain  and  fight 
in  the  cause  of  his  king  who  had  banished  him. 

He  still  believed  Imogen  false  to  him;  yet  the  death  of  her 
he  had  so  fondly  loved,  and  by  his  own  orders,  too  (Pisanio 
having  written  him  a  letter  to  say  he  had  obeyed  his  command, 
and  that  Imogen  was  dead),  sat  heavy  on  his  heart,  and  there- 
fore he  returned  to  Britain,  desiring  either  to  be  slain  in  battle 
or  to  be  put  to  death  by  Cymbeline  for  returning  home  from 
banishment. 

Imogen,  before  she  reached  Milford  Haven,  fell  into  the 
hands  of  the  Roman  army,  and,  her  presence  and  deportment 
recommending  her,  she  was  made  a  page  to  Lucius,  the  Roman 
general. 

Cymbeline's  army  now  advanced  to  meet  the  enemy,  and  when 
they  entered  this  forest  Polydore  and  Cadwal  joined  the  king's 
army.  The  young  men  were  eager  to  engage  in  acts  of  valor, 
though  they  little  thought  they  were  going  to  fight  for  their 
own  royal  father;  and  old  Bellarius  went  with  them  to  the  battle. 

[135] 


TALES    FROM 

He  had  long  since  repented  of  the  injury  he  had  done  to  Cym- 
beline  in  carrying  away  his  sons;  and,  having  been  a  warrior  in  his 
youth,  he  gladly  joined  the  army  to  fight  for  the  king  he  had  so 
injured. 

And  now  a  great  battle  commenced  between  the  two  armies, 
and  the  Britons  would  have  been  defeated,  and  Cymbeline  him- 
self killed,  but  for  the  extraordinary  valor  of  Posthumus  and 
Bellarius  and  the  two  sons  of  Cymbeline.  They  rescued  the  king 
and  saved  his  life,  and  so  entirely  turned  the  fortune  of  the  day 
that  the  Britons  gained  the  victory. 

When  the  battle  was  over,  Posthumus,  who  had  not  found  the 
death  he  sought  for,  surrendered  himself  up  to  one  of  the  officers 
of  Cymbeline,  willing  to  suffer  the  death  which  was  to  be  his 
punishment  if  he  returned  from  banishment. 

Imogen  and  the  master  she  served  were  taken  prisoners  and 
brought  before  Cymbeline,  as  was  also  her  old  enemy,  Iachimo, 
who  was  an  officer  in  the  Roman  army.  And  when  these  prisoners 
were  before  the  king,  Posthumus  was  brought  in  to  receive  his 
sentence  of  death;  and  at  this  strange  juncture  of  time  Bellarius 
with  Polydore  and  Cadwal  were  also  brought  before  Cymbeline, 
to  receive  the  rewards  due  to  the  great  services  they  had  by  their 
valor  done  for  the  king.  Pisanio,  being  one  of  the  king's  at- 
tendants, was  likewise  present. 

Therefore  there  were  now  standing  in  the  king's  presence  (but 
with  very  different  hopes  and  fears)  Posthumus  and  Imogen, 
with  her  new  master  the  Roman  general;  the  faithful  servant 
Pisanio  and  the  false  friend  Iachimo;  and  likewise  the  two  lost 
sons  of  Cymbeline,  with  Bellarius,  who  had  stolen  them  away. 

The  Roman  general  was  the  first  who  spoke;  the  rest  stood 
silent  before  the  king,  though  there  was  many  a  beating  heart 
among  them. 

Imogen  saw  Posthumus,  and  knew  him,  though  he  was  in  the 
disguise  of  a  peasant;  but  he  did  not  know  her  in  her  male  attire. 
And  she  knew  Iachimo,  and  she  saw  a  ring  on  his  finger  which  she 

perceived  to  be  her  own,  but  she  did  not  know  him  as  yet  to 

[136] 


SHAKESPEARE 

have  been  the  author  of  all  her  troubles;  and  she  stood  before  her 
own  father  a  prisoner  of  war. 

Pisanio  knew  Imogen,  for  it  was  he  who  had  dressed  her  in  the 
garb  of  a  boy.  "It  is  my  mistress,"  thought  he.  "Since  she  is 
living,  let  the  time  run  on  to  good  or  bad."  Bellarius  knew  her, 
too,  and  softly  said  to  Cadwal,  "Is  not  this  boy  revivecl  from 
death?" 

"One  sand,"  replied  Cadwal,  "does  not  more  resemble  another 
than  that  sweet,  rosy  lad  is  like  the  dead  Fidele." 

"The  same  dead  thing  alive,"  said  Polydore. 

"Peace,  peace,"  said  Bellarius.  "If  it  were  he,  I  am  sure  he 
would  have  spoken  to  us." 

"But  we  saw  him  dead,"  again  whispered  Polydore. 

"Be  silent,"  replied  Bellarius. 

Posthumus  waited  in  silence  to  hear  the  welcome  sentence  of 
his  own  death;  and  he  resolved  not  to  disclose  to  the  king  that 
he  had  saved  his  life  in  the  battle,  lest  that  should  move  Cym- 
beline  to  pardon  him. 

Lucius,  the  Roman  general,  who  had  taken  Imogen  under  his 
protection  as  his  page,  was  the  first  (as  has  been  before  said) 
who  spoke  to  the  king.  He  was  a  man  of  high  courage  and  noble 
dignity,  and  this  was  his  speech  to  the  king: 

"I  hear  you  take  no  ransom  for  your  prisoners,  but  doom  them 
all  to  death.  I  am  a  Roman,  and  with  a  Roman  heart  will  suffer 
death.  But  there  is  one  thing  for  which  I  would  entreat." 
Then  bringing  Imogen  before  the  king,  he  said:  "This  boy  is  a 
Briton  born.  Let  him  be  ransomed.  He  is  my  page.  Never 
master  had  a  page  so  kind,  so  duteous,  so  diligent  on  all  occa- 
sions, so  true,  so  nurselike.  He  hath  done  no  Briton  wrong, 
though  he  hath  served  a  Roman.  Save  him,  if  you  spare  no  one 
beside." 

Cymbeline  looked  earnestly  on  his  daughter  Imogen.  He 
knew  her  not  in  that  disguise;  but  it  seemed  that  all-powerful 
Nature  spake  in  his  heart,  for  he  said:  "I  have  surely  seen  him; 
his  face  appears  familiar  to  me.     I  know  not  why  or  wherefore  I 

U37l 


TALES    FROM 

say,  live,  boy,  but  I  give  you  your  life;  and  ask  of  me  what  boon 
you  will  and  I  will  grant  it  you.  Yea,  even  though  it  be  the  life 
of  the  noblest  prisoner  I  have." 

"I  humbly  thank  your  Highness,"  said  Imogen. 

What  was  then  called  granting  a  boon  was  the  same  as  a 
promise  to  give  any  one  thing,  whatever  it  might  be,  that  the 
person  on  whom  that  favor  was  conferred  chose  to  ask  for. 
They  all  were  attentive  to  hear  what  thing  the  page  would  ask 
for;   and  Lucius,  her  master,  said  to  her: 

"I  do  not  beg  my  life,  good  lad,  but  I  know  that  is  what 
you  will  ask  for." 

"No,  no,  alas!"  said  Imogen.  "I  have  other  work  in  hand, 
good  master.    Your  life  I  cannot  ask  for." 

This  seeming  want  of  gratitude  in  the  boy  astonished  the 
Roman  general. 

Imogen  then,  fixing  her  eye  on  Iachimo,  demanded  no  other 
boon  than  this:  that  Iachimo  should  be  made  to  confess  whence 
he  had  the  ring  he  wore  on  his  finger. 

Cymbeline  granted  her  this  boon,  and  threatened  Iachimo  with 
the  torture  if  he  did  not  confess  how  he  came  by  the  diamond 
ring  on  his  finger. 

Iachimo  then  made  a  full  acknowledgment  of  all  his  villainy, 
telling,  as  has  been  before  related,  the  whole  story  of  his  wager 
with  Posthumus  and  how  he  had  succeeded  in  imposing  upon  his 
credulity. 

What  Posthumus  felt  at  hearing  this  proof  of  the  innocence 
of  his  lady  cannot  be  expressed.  He  instantly  came  forward  and 
confessed  to  Cymbeline  the  cruel  sentence  which  he  had  enjoined 
Pisanio  to  execute  upon  the  princess,  exclaiming,  wildly: 

"O  Imogen,  my  queen,  my  life,  my  wife!  O  Imogen,  Imogen, 
Imogen!" 

Imogen  could  not  see  her  beloved  husband  in  this  distress 
without  discovering  herself,  to  the  unutterable  joy  of  Posthumus, 
who  was  thus  relieved  from  a  weight  of  guilt  and  woe,  and  restored 
to  the  good  graces  of  the  dear  lady  he  had  so  cruelly  treated. 

[138] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Cymbeline,  almost  as  much  overwhelmed  as  he  with  joy, 
at  finding  his  lost  daughter  so  strangely  recovered,  received  her 
to  her  former  place  in  his  fatherly  affection,  and  not  only  gave 
her  husband  Posthumus  his  life,  but  consented  to  acknowledge 
him  for  his  son-in-law. 

Bellarius  chose  this  time  of  joy  and  reconciliation  to  make  his 
confession.  He  presented  Polydore  and  Cadwal  to  the  king, 
telling  him  they  were  his  two  lost  sons,  Guiderius  and  Arviragus. 

Cymbeline  forgave  old  Bellarius;  for  who  could  think  of 
punishments  at  a  season  of  such  universal  happiness?  To  find 
his  daughter  living,  and  his  lost  sons  in  the  persons  of  his  young 
deliverers,  that  he  had  seen  so  bravely  fight  in  his  defense,  was 
unlooked-for  joy  indeed! 

Imogen  was  now  at  leisure  to  perform  good  services  for  her 
late  master,  the  Roman  general,  Lucius,  whose  life  the  king,  her 
father,  readily  granted  at  her  request;  and  by  the  mediation  of 
the  same  Lucius  a  peace  was  concluded  between  the  Romans 
and  the  Britons  which  was  kept  inviolate  many  years. 

How  Cymbeline's  wicked  queen,  through  despair  of  bringing 
her  projects  to  pass,  and  touched  with  remorse  of  conscience, 
sickened  and  died,  having  first  lived  to  see  her  foolish  son  Cloten 
slain  in  a  quarrel  which  he  had  provoked,  are  events  too  tragical 
to  interrupt  this  happy  conclusion  by  more  than  merely  touching 
upon.  It  is  sufficient  that  all  were  made  happy  who  were  deserv- 
ing; and  even  the  treacherous  Iachimo,  in  consideration  of  his 
villainy  having  missed  its  final  aim,  was  dismissed  without 
punishment. 


TALES    FROM 


KING  LEAR 


H^EAR,  King  of  Britain,  had  three  daughters : 
Goneril,  wife  to  the  Duke  of  Albany; 
Regan,  wife  to  the  Duke  of  Cornwall; 
and  Cordelia,  a  young  maid,  for  whose 
love  the  King  of  France  and  Duke  of 
Burgundy  were  joint  suitors,  and  were 
at  this  time  making  stay  for  that  pur- 
pose in  the  court  of  Lear. 
The  old  king,  worn  out  with  age  and 
the  fatigues  of  government,  he  being  more  than  fourscore  years 
old,  determined  to  take  no  further  part  in  state  affairs,  but  to 
leave  the  management  to  younger  strengths,  that  he  might  have 
time  to  prepare  for  death,  which  must  at  no  long  period  ensue. 
With  this  intent  he  called  his  three  daughters  to  him,  to  know 
from  their  own  lips  which  of  them  loved  him  best,  that  he 
might  part  his  kingdom  among  them  in  such  proportions  as 
their  affection  for  him  should  seem  to  deserve. 

Goneril,  the  eldest,  declared  that  she  loved  her  father  more  than 
words  could  give  out,  that  he  was  dearer  to  her  than  the  light 
of  her  own  eyes,  dearer  than  life  and  liberty,  with  a  deal  of  such 
professing  stuff,  which  is  easy  to  counterfeit  where  there  is  no 
real  love,  only  a  few  fine  words  delivered  with  confidence  being 
wanted  in  that  case.  The  king,  delighted  to  hear  from  her  own 
mouth  this  assurance  of  her  love,  and  thinking  truly  that  her 
heart  went  with  it,  in  a  fit  of  fatherly  fondness  bestowed  upon  her 
and  her  husband  one-third  of  his  ample  kingdom. 

Then  calling  to  him  his  second  daughter  he  demanded  what 
she  had  to  say.  Regan,  who  was  made  of  the  same  hollow  metal 
as  her  sister,  was  not  a  whit  behind  in  her  professions,  but  rather 

[140] 


SHAKESPEARE 

declared  that  what  her  sister  had  spoken  came  short  of  the  love 
which  she  professed  to  bear  for  his  Highness;  in  so  much  that 
she  found  all  other  joys  dead  in  comparison  with  the  pleasure 
which  she  took  in  the  love  of  her  dear  king  and  father. 

Lear  blessed  himself  in  having  such  loving  children,  as  he 
thought;  and  could  do  no  less,  after  the  handsome  assurances 
which  Regan  had  made,  than  bestow  a  third  of  his  kingdom  upon 
her  and  her  husband,  equal  in  size  to  that  which  he  had  already 
given  away  to  Goneril. 

Then  turning  to  his  youngest  daughter,  Cordelia,  whom  he 
called  his  joy,  he  asked  what  she  had  to  say,  thinking  no  doubt 
that  she  would  glad  his  ears  with  the  same  loving  speeches 
which  her  sisters  had  jittered,  or  rather  that  her  expressions 
would  be  so  much  stronger  than  theirs,  as  she  had  always  been 
his  darling,  and  favored  by  him  above  either  of  them.  But 
Cordelia,  disgusted  with  the  flattery  of  her  sisters,  whose  hearts 
she  knew  were  far  from  their  lips,  and  seeing  that  all  their  coaxing 
speeches  were  only  intended  to  wheedle  the  old  king  out  of  his 
dominions,  that  they  and  their  husbands  might  reign  in  his 
lifetime,  made  no  other  reply  but  this — that  she  loved  his  Majesty 
according  to  her  duty,  neither  more  nor  less. 

The  king,  shocked  with  this  appearance  of  ingratitude  in  his 
favorite  child,  desired  her  to  consider  her  words  and  to  mend 
her  speech,  lest  it  should  mar  her  fortunes. 

Cordelia  then  told  her  father  that  he  was  her  father,  that  he 
had  given  her  breeding,  and  loved  her;  that  she  returned  those 
duties  back  as  was  most  fit,  and  did  obey  him,  love  him,  and 
most  honor  him.  But  that  she  could  not  frame  her  mouth  to 
such  large  speeches  as  her  sisters  had  done,  or  promise  to  love 
nothing  else  in  the  world.  Why  had  her  sisters  husbands  if 
(as  they  said)  they  had  no  love  for  anything  but  their  father? 
If  she  should  ever  wed,  she  was  sure  the  lord  to  whom  she  gave 
her  hand  would  want  half  her  love,  half  of  her  care  and  duty; 
she  should  never  marry  like  her  sisters,  to  love  her  father  all. 

Cordelia,  who  in  earnest  loved  her  old  father  even  almost  as 

[141] 


TALES    FROM 


extravagantly  as  her  sisters  pretended  to  do,  would  have  plainly 
told  him  so  at  any  other  time,  in  more  daughter-like  and  loving 
terms,  and  without  these  qualifications,  which  did  indeed  sound 
a  little  ungracious;    but  after  the  crafty,  flattering  speeches  of 

her  sisters,  which  she  had  seen 
draw  such  extravagant  rewards, 
she  thought  the  handsomest 
thing  she  could  do  was  to  love 
and  be  silent.  This  put  her 
affection  out  of  suspicion  of 
mercenary  ends,  and  showed 
that  she  loved,  but  not  for  gain; 
and  that  her  professions,  the  less 
ostentatious  they  were,  had  so 
much  the  more  of  truth  and  sin- 
cerity than  her  sisters'. 

This  plainness  of  speech,  which 
Lear  called  pride,  so  enraged  the 
old  monarch — who  in  his  best  of 
times  always  showed  much  of 
spleen,  and  rashness,  and  in 
whom  the  dotage  incident  to  old 
age  had  so  clouded  over  his 
reason  that  he  could  not  discern 
truth  from  flattery,  nor  a  gay- 
painted  speech  from  words  that 
came  from  the  heart — that  in  a  fury  of  resentment  he  retracted 
the  third  part  of  his  kingdom  which  yet  remained,  and  which  he 
had  reserved  for  Cordelia,  and  gave  it  away  from  her,  sharing  it 
equally  between  her  two  sisters  and  their  husbands,  the  Dukes 
of  Albany  and  Cornwall,  whom  he  now  called  to  him  and  in 
presence  of  all  his  courtiers,  bestowing  a  coronet  between  them, 
invested  them  jointly  with  all  the  power,  revenue,  and  execution 
of  government,  only  retaining  to  himself  the  name  of  king; 
all  the  rest  of  royalty  he  resigned,  with  this  reservation,  that 

[142] 


SHAKESPEARE 


himself,  with  a  hundred  knights  for  his  attendants,  was  to  be 
maintained  by  monthly  course  in  each  of  his  daughters'  palaces 
in  turn. 

So  preposterous  a  disposal  of  his  kingdom,  so  little  guided  by 
reason,  and  so  much  by  passion,  filled  all  his  courtiers  with  as- 
tonishment and  sorrow;  but  none  of  them 
had  the  courage  to  interpose  between 
this  incensed  king  and  his  wrath,  except 
the  Earl  of  Kent,  who  was  beginning  to 
speak  a  good  word  for  Cordelia,  when 
the  passionate  Lear  on  pain  of  death  com- 
manded him  to  desist;  but  the  good  Kent 
was  not  so  to  be  repelled.  He  had  been 
ever  loyal  to  Lear,  whom  he  had  honored 
as  a  king,  loved  as  a  father,  followed  as 
a  master;  and  he  had  never  esteemed  his 
life  further  than  as  a  pawn  to  wage 
against  his  royal  master's  enemies,  nor 
feared  to  lose  it  when  Lear's  safety  was  — 
the  motive;  nor,  now  that  Lear  was  most 
his  own  enemy,  did  this  faithful  servant 
of  the  king  forget  his  old  principles,  but 
manfully  opposed  Lear,  to  do  Lear  good; 
and  was  unmannerly  only  because  Lear 
was  mad.  He  had  been  a  most  faithful 
counselor  in  times  past  to  the  king,  and  he  besought  him  now 
that  he  would  see  with  his  eyes  (as  he  had  done  in  many  weighty 
matters)  and  go  by  his  advice  still,  and  in  his  best  consideration 
recall  this  hideous  rashness;  for  he  would  answer  with  his  life 
his  judgment  that  Lear's  youngest  daughter  did  not  love  him 
least,  nor  were  those  empty-hearted  whose  low  sound  gave  no 
token  of  hollowness.  When  power  bowed  to  flattery,  honor 
was  bound  to  plainness.  For  Lear's  threats,  what  could  he  do 
to  him  whose  life  was  already  at  his  service?  That  should  not 
hinder  duty  from  speaking. 

[143] 


TALES    FROM 

The  honest  freedom  of  this  good  Earl  of  Kent  only  stirred  up 
the  king's  wrath  the  more,  and,  like  a  frantic  patient  who  kills 
his  physician  and  loves  his  mortal  disease,  he  banished  this  true 
servant,  and  allotted  him  but  five  days  to  make  his  preparations 
for  departure;  but  if  on  the  sixth  his  hated  person  was  found 
within  the  realm  of  Britain,  that  moment  was  to  be  his  death. 
And  Kent  bade  farewell  to  the  king,  and  said  that,  since  he 
chose  to  show  himself  in  such  fashion,  it  was  but  banishment  to 
stay  there;  and  before  he  went  he  recommended  Cordelia  to  the 
protection  of  the  gods,  the  maid  who  had  so  rightly  thought 
and  so  discreetly  spoken;  and  only  wished  that  her  sisters'  large 
speeches  might  be  answered  with  deeds  of  love;  and  then  he 
went,  as  he  said,  to  shape  his  old  course  to  a  new  country. 

The  King  of  France  and  Duke  of  Burgundy  were  now  called  in 
to  hear  the  determination  of  Lear  about  his  youngest  daughter, 
and  to  know  whether  they  would  persist  in  their  courtship  to 
Cordelia,  now  that  she  was  under  her  father's  displeasure  and 
had  no  fortune  but  her  own  person  to  recommend  her.  And 
the  Duke  of  Burgundy  declined  the  match,  and  would  not  take 
her  to  wife  upon  such  conditions.  But  the  King  of  France, 
understanding  what  the  nature  of  the  fault  had  been  which  had 
lost  her  the  love  of  her  father — that  it  was  only  a  tardiness  of 
speech  and  the  not  being  able  to  frame  her  tongue  to  flattery 
like  her  sisters — took  this  young  maid  by  the  hand  and,  saying 
that  her  virtues  were  a  dowry  above  a  kingdom,  bade  Cordelia 
to  take  farewell  of  her  sisters  and  of  her  father,  though  he  had 
been  unkind,  and  she  should  go  with  him  and  be  Queen  of  him 
and  of  fair  France,  and  reign  over  fairer  possessions  than  her 
sisters.  And  he  called  the  Duke  of  Burgundy,  in  contempt,  a 
waterish  duke,  because  his  love  for  this  young  maid  had  in  a 
moment  run  all  away  like  water. 

Then  Cordelia  with  weeping  eyes  took  leave  of  her  sisters,  and 
besought  them  to  love  their  father  well  and  make  good  their 
professions;  and  they  sullenly  told  her  not  to  prescribe  to  them, 
for  they  knew  their  duty,  but  to  strive  to  content  her  husband, 

[144] 


SHAKESPEARE 

who  had  taken  her  (as  they  tauntingly  expressed  it)  as  Fortune's 
alms.     And  Cordelia  with  a  heavy  heart  departed,  for  she  knew 
the  cunning  of  her  sisters  and  she  wished  her  father  in  better 
hands   than    she 
was  about  to  leave 
him  in. 

Cordelia  was  no 
sooner  gone  than 
the  devilish  dis- 
positions of  her 
sisters  began  to 
show  themselves 
in  their  true  colors. 
Even  before  the 
expiration  of  the 
first  month,  which 
Lear  was  to  spend 
by  agreement 
with  his  eldest 
daughter,  Goneril, 
the  old  king  began 
to  find  out  the  dif- 
ference between 
promises  and  per- 
formances. This 
wretch,  having  got 
from  her  father  all 
that  he  had  to  be- 
stow, even  to  the 

giving  away  of  the  crown  from  off*  his  head,  began  to  grudge 
even  those  small  remnants  of  royalty  which  the  old  man 
had  reserved  to  himself,  to  please  his  fancy  with  the  idea 
of  being  still  a  king.  She  could  not  bear  to  see  him  and  his 
hundred  knights.  Every  time  she  met  her  father  she  put  on  a 
frowning  countenance;  and  when  the  old  man  wanted  to  speak 
10  [  145  ] 


<"_' 


TALES    FROM 

with  her  she  would  feign  sickness  or  anything  to  get  rid  of  the 
sight  of  him,  for  it  was  plain  that  she  esteemed  his  old  age  a  useless 
burden  and  his  attendants  an  unnecessary  expense;  not  only  she 
herself  slackened  in  her  expressions  of  duty  to  the  king,  but  by  her 
example,  and  (it  is  to  be  feared)  not  without  her  private  instruc- 
tions, her  very  servants  affected  to  treat  him  with  neglect,  and 
would  either  refuse  to  obey  his  orders  or  still  more  contemptuously 
pretend  not  to  hear  them.  Lear  could  not  but  perceive  this 
alteration  in  the  behavior  of  his  daughter,  but  he  shut  his  eyes 
against  it  as  long  as  he  could,  as  people  commonly  are  unwilling 
to  believe  the  unpleasant  consequences  which  their  own  mistakes 
and  obstinacy  have  brought  upon  them. 

True  love  and  fidelity  are  no  more  to  be  estranged  by  ill,  than 
falsehood  and  hollow-heartedness  can  be  conciliated  by  good, 
usage.  This  eminently  appears  in  the  instance  of  the  good  Earl 
of  Kent,  who,  though  banished  by  Lear,  and  his  life  made  forfeit 
if  he  were  found  in  Britain,  chose  to  stay  and  abide  all  conse- 
quences as  long  as  there  was  a  chance  of  his  being  useful  to  the 
king  his  master.  See  to  what  mean  shifts  and  disguises  pooi 
loyalty  is  forced  to  submit  sometimes;  yet  it  counts  nothing 
base  or  unworthy  so  as  it  can  but  do  service  where  it  owes  an 
obligation!  In  the  disguise  of  a  serving-man,  all  his  greatness 
and  pomp  laid  aside,  this  good  earl  proffered  his  services  to  the 
king,  who,  not  knowing  him  to  be  Kent  in  that  disguise,  but 
pleased  with  a  certain  plainness,  or  rather  bluntness,  in  his 
answers,  which  the  earl  put  on  (so  different  from  that  smooth, 
oily  flattery  which  he  had  so  much  reason  to  be  sick  of,  having 
found  the  effects  not  answerable  in  his  daughter),  a  bargain  was 
quickly  struck,  and  Lear  took  Kent  into  his  service  by  the  name  of 
Caius,  as  he  called  himself,  never  suspecting  him  to  be  his  once 
great  favorite,  the  high  and  mighty  Earl  of  Kent. 

This  Caius  quickly  found  means  to  show  his  fidelity  and  love 
to  his  royal  master,  for,  Goneril's  steward  that  same  day  behaving 
in  a  disrespectful  manner  to  Lear,  and  giving  him  saucy  looks  and 
language,  as  no  doubt  he  was  secretly  encouraged  to  do  by  his 

[146] 


SHAKESPEARE 

mistress,  Caius,  not  enduring  to  hear  so  open  an  affront  put  upon 
his  Majesty,  made  no  more  ado,  but  presently  tripped  up  his 
heels  and  laid  the  unmannerly  slave  in  the  kennel;  for  which 
friendly  service  Lear  became  more  and  more  attached  to  him. 

Nor  was  Kent  the  only  friend  Lear  had.  In  his  degree,  and 
as  far  as  so  insignificant  a  personage  could  show  his  love,  the 
poor  fool,  or  jester,  that  had  been  of  his  palace  while  Lear  had  a 
palace,  as  it  was  the  custom  of  kings  and  great  personages  at  that 
time  to  keep  a  fool  (as  he  was  called)  to  make  them  sport  after 
serious  business — this  poor  fool  clung  to  Lear  after  he  had  given 
away  his  crown,  and  by  his  witty  sayings  would  keep  up  his  good- 
humor,  though  he  could  not  refrain  sometimes  from  jeering  at 
his  master  for  his  imprudence  in  uncrowning  himself  and  giving 
all  away  to  his  daughters;  at  which  time,  as  he  rhymingly  ex- 
pressed it,  these  daughters — 

"For  sudden  joy  did  weep, 
And  I  for  sorrow  sung, 
That  such  a  king  should  play  bo-peep 
And  go  the  fools  among." 

And  in  such  wild  sayings,  and  scraps  of  songs,  of  which  he  had 
plenty,  this  pleasant,  honest  fool  poured  out  his  heart  even  in  the 
presence  of  Goneril  herself,  in  many  a  bitter  taunt  and  jest 
which  cut  to  the  quick,  such  as  comparing  the  king  to  the  hedge- 
sparrow,  who  feeds  the  young  of  the  cuckoo  till  they  grow  old 
enough,  and  then  has  its  head  bit  off  for  its  pains;  and  saying 
that  an  ass  may  know  when  the  cart  draws  the  horse  (meaning 
that  Lear's  daughters,  that  ought  to  go  behind,  now  ranked  before 
their  father);  and  that  Lear  was  no  longer  Lear,  but  the  shadow 
of  Lear.  For  which  free  speeches  he  was  once  or  twice  threatened 
to  be  whipped. 

The  coolness  and  falling  off  of  respect  which  Lear  had  begun 
to  perceive  were  not  all  which  this  foolish  fond  father  was  to  suf- 
fer from  his  unworthy  daughter.  She  now  plainly  told  him  that 
his  staying  in  her  palace  was  inconvenient  so  long  as  he  insisted 

[1471 


TALES    FROM 

upon  keeping  up  an  establishment  of  a  hundred  knights;  that  this 
establishment  was  useless  and  expensive  and  only  served  to  fill 
her  court  with  riot  and  feasting;  and  she  prayed  him  that  he 
would  lessen  their  number  and  keep  none  but  old  men  about  him, 
such  as  himself,  and  fitting  his  age. 

Lear  at  first  could  not  believe  his  eyes  or  ears,  nor  that  it 
was  his  daughter  who  spoke  so  unkindly.  He  could  not  believe 
that  she  who  had  received  a  crown  from  him  could  seek  to  cut 
off*  his  train  and  grudge  him  the  respect  due  to  his  old  age.  But 
she  persisting  in  her  undutiful  demand,  the  old  man's  rage 
was  so  excited  that  he  called  her  a  detested  kite  and  said  that  she 
spoke  an  untruth;  and  so  indeed  she  did,  for  the  hundred  knights 
were  all  men  of  choice  behavior  and  sobriety  of  manners,  skilled 
in  all  particulars  of  duty,  and  not  given  to  rioting  or  feasting,  as 
she  said.  And  he  bid  his  horses  to  be  prepared,  for  he  would  go 
to  his  other  daughter,  Regan,  he  and  his  hundred  knights;  and 
he  spoke  of  ingratitude,  and  said  it  was  a  marble-hearted  devil, 
and  showed  more  hideous  in  a  child  than  the  sea-monster.  And 
he  cursed  his  eldest  daughter,  Goneril,  so  as  was  terrible  to  hear, 
praying  that  she  might  never  have  a  child,  or,  if  she  had,  that 
it  might  live  to  return  that  scorn  and  contempt  upon  her  which 
she  had  shown  to  him;  that  she  might  feel  how  sharper  than  a 
serpent's  tooth  it  was  to  have  a  thankless  child.  And  Goneril's 
husband,  the  Duke  of  Albany,  beginning  to  excuse  himself  for 
any  share  which  Lear  might  suppose  he  had  in  the  unkindness, 
Lear  would  not  hear  him  out,  but  in  a  rage  ordered  his  horses  to 
be  saddled  and  set  out  with  his  followers  for  the  abode  of  Regan, 
his  other  daughter.  And  Lear  thought  to  himself  how  small 
the  fault  of  Cordelia  (if  it  was  a  fault)  now  appeared  in  compar- 
ison with  her  sister's,  and  he  wept;  and  then  he  was  ashamed 
that  such  a  creature  as  Goneril  should  have  so  much  power 
over  his  manhood  as  to  make  him  weep. 

Regan  and  her  husband  were  keeping  their  court  in  great  pomp 
and  state  at  their  palace;  and  Lear  despatched  his  servant 
Caius  with  letters  to  his  daughter,  that  she  might  be  prepared  for 

[148] 


SHAKESPEARE 

his  reception,  while  he  and  his  train  followed  after.  But  it  seems 
that  Goneril  had  been  beforehand  with  him,  sending  letters  also 
to  Regan,  accusing  her  father  of  waywardness  and  ill-humors,  and 
advising  her  not  to  receive  so  great  a  train  as  he  was  bringing 
with  him.  This  messenger  arrived  at  the  same  time  with  Caius, 
and  Caius  and  he  met,  and  who  should  it  be  but  Caius's  old 
enemy  the  steward,  whom  he  had  formerly  tripped  up  by  the 
heels  for  his  saucy  behavior  to  Lear.  Caius  not  liking  the  fellow's 
look,  and  suspecting  what  he  came  for,  began  to  revile  him  and 
challenged  him  to  fight,  which  the  fellow  refusing,  Caius,  in  a  fit 
of  honest  passion,  beat  him  soundly,  as  such  a  mischief-maker 
and  carrier  of  wicked  messages  deserved;  which  coming  to  the 
ears  of  Regan  and  her  husband,  they  ordered  Caius  to  be  put  in  the 
stocks,  though  he  was  a  messenger  from  the  king  her  father  and 
in  that  character  demanded  the  highest  respect.  So  that  the 
first  thing  the  king  saw  when  he  entered  the  castle  was  his 
faithful  servant  Caius  sitting  in  that  disgraceful  situation. 

This  was  but  a  bad  omen  of  the  reception  which  he  was  to 
expect;  but  a  worse  followed  when,  upon  inquiry  for  his  daughter 
and  her  husband,  he  was  told  they  were  weary  with  traveling  all 
night  and  could  not  see  him;  and  when,  lastly,  upon  his  insisting 
in  a  positive  and  angry  manner  to  see  them,  they  came  to  greet 
him,  whom  should  he  see  in  their  company  but  the  hated  Goneril, 
who  had  come  to  tell  her  own  story  and  set  her  sister  against  the 
king  her  father! 

This  sight  much  moved  the  old  man,  and  still  more  to  see 
Regan  take  her  by  the  hand;  and  he  asked  Goneril  if  she  was  not 
ashamed  to  look  upon  his  old  white  beard.  And  Regan  advised 
him  to  go  home  again  with  Goneril,  and  live  with  her  peaceably, 
dismissing  half  of  his  attendants,  and  to  ask  her  forgiveness; 
for  he  was  old  and  wanted  discretion,  and  must  be  ruled  and  led 
by  persons  that  had  more  discretion  than  himself.  And  Lear 
showed  how  preposterous  that  would  sound,  if  he  were  to  go  down 
on  his  knees  and  beg  of  his  own  daughter  for  food  and  raiment; 
and  he  argued  against  such  an  unnatural  dependence,  declaring 

[i49l 


TALES    FROM 


his  resolution  never  to  return  with  her,  but  to  stay  where  he  was 
with  Regan,  he  and  his  hundred  knights;  for  he  said  that  she  had 
not  forgot  the  half  of  the  kingdom  which  he  had  endowed  her  with, 
and  that  her  eyes  were  not  fierce  like  Goneril's,  but  mild  and 

kind.  And  he  said 
that  rather  than 
return  to  Goneril, 
with  half  his  train 
cut  off,  he  would 
go  over  to  France 
and  beg  a  wretched 
pension  of  the  king 
there,  who  had  mar- 
ried his  youngest 
daughter  without  a 
portion. 

But  he  was  mis- 
taken in  expecting 
kinder  treatment  of 
Regan  than  he  had 
experienced  from 
her  sister  Goneril. 
As  if  willing  to 
outdo  her  sister  in 
unfilial  behavior, 
she  declared  that 
she  thought  fifty 
knights  too  many 
to  wait  upon  him;  that  five-and-twenty  were  enough.  Then 
Lear,  nigh  heartbroken,  turned  to  Goneril  and  said  that  he 
would  go  back  with  her,  for  her  fifty  doubled  five-and-twenty, 
and  so  her  love  was  twice  as  much  as  Regan's.  But  Goneril 
excused  herself,  and  said,  what  need  of  so  many  as  five-and- 
twenty?  or  even  ten?  or  five?  when  he  might  be  waited 
upon  by  her  servants  or  her  sister's  servants?    So  these  two 

[ISO] 


SHAKESPEARE 


wicked  daughters,  as  if  they  strove  to  exceed  each  other  in 
cruelty  to  their  old  father,  who  had  been  so  good  to  them,  by 
little  and  little  would  have  abated  him  of  all  his  train,  all  respect 
(little  enough  for  him  that  once  commanded  a  kingdom)  which 
was  left  him  to  show 


that  he  had  once  been 
a  king!  Not  that  a 
splendid  train  is  es- 
sential to  happiness, 
but  from  a  king  to  a 
beggar  is  a  h  ard 
change,  from  com- 
manding millions  to 
be  without  one  at- 
tendant; and  it  was 
the  ingratitude  in  his 
daughters'  denying  it, 
more  than  what  he 
would  suffer  by  the 
want  of  it,  which 
pierced  this  poor  king 
to  the  heart;  in  so 
much  that,  with  this 
double  ill-usage,  and 
vexation  for  having  so 
foolishly  given  away 
a  kingdom,  his  wits 
began  to  be  unsettled, 

and  while  he  said  he  knew  not  what,  he  vowed  revenge  against 
those  unnatural  hags  and  to  make  examples  of  them  that  should 
be  a  terror  to  the  earth! 

While  he  was  thus  idly  threatening  what  his  weak  arm  could 
never  execute,  night  came  on,  and  a  loud  storm  of  thunder  and 
lightning  with  rain;  and  his  daughters  still  persisting  in  their 
resolution  not  to  admit  his  followers,  he  called  for  his  horses, 

[I5i] 


TALES    FROM 

and  chose  rather  to  encounter  the  utmost  fury  of  the  storm 
abroad  than  stay  under  the  same  roof  with  these  ungrateful 
daughters;  and  they,  saying  that  the  injuries  which  wilful  men 
procure  to  themselves  are  their  just  punishment,  suffered  him 
to  go  in  that  condition  and  shut  their  doors  upon  him. 

The  winds  were  high,  and  the  rain  and  storm  increased,  when 
the  old  man  sallied  forth  to  combat  with  the  elements,  less  sharp 
than  his  daughters'  unkindness.  For  many  miles  about  there 
was  scarce  a  bush;  and  there  upon  a  heath,  exposed  to  the  fury 
of  the  storm  in  a  dark  night,  did  King  Lear  wander  out,  and 
defy  the  winds  and  the  thunder;  and  he  bid  the  winds  to  blow 
the  earth  into  the  sea,  or  swell  the  waves  of  the  sea  till  they 
drowned  the  earth,  that  no  token  might  remain  of  any  such  un- 
grateful animal  as  man.  The  old  king  was  now  left  with  no  other 
companion  than  the  poor  fool,  who  still  abided  with  him,  with 
his  merry  conceits  striving  to  outjest  misfortune,  saying  it  was 
but  a  naughty  night  to  swim  in,  and  truly  the  king  had  better 
go  in  and  ask  his  daughter's  blessing: 

But  he  that  has  a  little  tiny  wit — 
With  heigh  ho,  the  wind  and  the  rain — 

Must  make  content  with  his  fortunes  fit, 
Though  the  rain  it  raineth  every  day, 

and  swearing  it  was  a  brave  night  to  cool  a  lady's  pride. 

Thus  poorly  accompanied,  this  once  great  monarch  was  found 
by  his  ever-faithful  servant  the  good  Earl  of  Kent,  now  trans- 
formed to  Caius,  who  ever  followed  close  at  his  side,  though  the 
king  did  not  know  him  to  be  the  earl;    and  he  said: 

"Alas,  sir,  are  you  here?  Creatures  that  love  night  love  not 
such  nights  as  these.  This-  dreadful  storm  has  driven  the  beasts 
to  their  hiding-places.  Man's  nature  cannot  endure  the  affliction 
or  the  fear." 

And  Lear  rebuked  him  and  said  these  lesser  evils  were  not  felt 
where  a  greater  malady  was  fixed.  When  the  mind  is  at  ease  the 
body  has  leisure  to  be  delicate,  but  the  tempest  in  his  mind  did 

[IS*! 


SHAKESPEARE 


take  all  feeling  else  from  his  senses  but  of  that  which  beat  at  his 
heart.  And  he  spoke  of  filial  ingratitude,  and  said  it  was  all  one 
as  if  the  mouth  should  tear  the  hand  for  lifting  food  to  it;  for 
parents  were  hands  and  food  and  everything  to  children. 

But  the  good 
Caius  still  persist- 
ing in  his  entrea- 
ties that  the  king 
would  not  stay  out 
in  the  open  air,  at 
last  persuaded  him 
to  enter  a  little 
wretched  hovel 
which  stood  upon 
the  heath,  where 
the  fool  first  enter- 
ing, suddenly  ran 
back  terrified,  say- 
ing that  he  had 
seen  a  spirit.  But 
upon  examination 
this  spirit  proved 
to  be  nothing 
more  than  a  poor 
Bedlam  beggar 
who  had  crept  into 
this  deserted  hovel 
for  shelter,  and 
with  his  talk  about 
devils  frighted  the  fool,  one  of  those  poor  lunatics  who  are 
either  mad,  or  feign  to  be  so,  the  better  to  extort  charity  from 
the  compassionate  country  people,  who  go  about  the  country 
calling  themselves  poor  Tom  and  poor  Turlygood,  saying,  "Who 
gives  anything  to  poor  Tom?"  sticking  pins  and  nails  and  sprigs 
of  rosemary  into  their  arms  to  make  them  bleed;   and  with  such 

[153] 


TALES    FROM 

horrible  actions,  partly  by  prayers,  and  partly  with  lunatic 
curses,  they  move  or  terrify  the  ignorant  country  folk  into  giving 
them  alms.  This  poor  fellow  was  such  a  one;  and  the  king,  see- 
ing him  in  so  wretched  a  plight,  with  nothing  but  a  blanket  about 
his  loins  to  cover  his  nakedness,  could  not  be  persuaded  but  that 
the  fellow  was  some  father  who  had  given  all  away  to  his  daugh- 
ters and  brought  himself  to  that  pass;  for  nothing,  he  thought, 
could  bring  a  man  to  such  wretchedness  but  the  having  unkind 
daughters. 

And  from  this  and  many  such  wild  speeches  which  he  uttered 
the  good  Caius  plainly  perceived  that  he  was  not  in  his  perfect 
mind,  but  that  his  daughters'  ill-usage  had  really  made  him  go 
mad.  And  now  the  loyalty  of  this  worthy  Earl  of  Kent  showed 
itself  in  more  essential  services  than  he  had  hitherto  found 
opportunity  to  perform.  For  with  the  assistance  of  some  of  the 
king's  attendants  who  remained  loyal  he  had  the  person  of  his 
royal  master  removed  at  daybreak  to  the  castle  of  Dover,  where 
his  own  friends  and  influence,  as  Earl  of  Kent,  chiefly  lay;  and 
himself,  embarking  for  France,  hastened  to  the  court  of  Cordelia, 
and  did  there  in  such  moving  terms  represent  the  pitiful  condition 
of  her  royal  father,  and  set  out  in  such  lively  colors  the  inhu- 
manity of  her  sisters,  that  this  good  and  loving  child  with  many 
tears  besought  the  king,  her  husband,  that  he  would  give  her 
leave  to  embark  for  England,  with  a  sufficient  power  to  subdue 
these  cruel  daughters  and  their  husbands  and  restore  the  old 
king,  her  father,  to  his  throne;  which  being  granted,  she  set 
forth,  and  with  a  royal  army  landed  at  Dover. 

Lear, having  by  some  chance  escaped  from  the  guardians  which 
the  good  Earl  of  Kent  had  put  over  him  to  take  care  of  him  in  his 
lunacy,  was  found  by  some  of  Cordelia's  train,  wandering  about 
the  fields  near  Dover,  in  a  pitiable  condition,  stark  mad,  and 
singing  aloud  to  himself,  with  a  crown  upon  his  head  which  he 
had  made  of  straw  and  nettles  and  other  wild  weeds  that  he  had 
picked  up  in  the  corn-fields.  By  the  advice  of  the  physicians, 
Cordelia,  though  earnestly  desirous  of  seeing  her  father,  was  pre- 

[I54l 


SHAKESPEARE 


vailed  upon  to  put  off  the  meeting  till,  by  sleep  and  the  operation 
of  herbs  which  they  gave  him,  he  should  be  restored  to  greater 
composure.  By  the  aid  of  these  skilful  physicians,  to  whom 
Cordelia  promised  all  her  gold  and  jewels  for  the  recovery  of  the 
old  king,  Lear  was  soon  in  a  condition  to  see  his  daughter. 

A  tender  sight  it  was  to  see 
the  meeting  between  this  father 
and  daughter;  to  see  the 
struggles  between  the  joy  of  this 
poor  old  king  at  beholding  again 
his  once  darling  child,  and  the 
shame  at  receiving  such  filial 
kindness  from  her  whom  he  had 
cast  off  for  so  small  a  fault  in 
his  displeasure;  both  these  pas- 
sions struggling  with  the  remains 
of  his  malady,  which  in  his  half- 
crazed  brain  sometimes  made 
him  that  he  scarce  remembered 
where  he  was  or  who  it  was  that 
so  kindly  kissed  him  and  spoke 
to  him.  And  then  he  would  beg 
the  standers-by  not  to  laugh  at 
him  if  he  were  mistaken  in  think- 
ing this  lady  to  be  his  daughter 
Cordelia!  And  then  to  see  him 
fall  on  his  knees  to  beg  pardon 
of  his  child;  and  she,  good  lady, 
kneeling  all  the  while  to  ask  a 
blessing  of  him,  and  telling  him  that  it  did  not  become  him  to 
kneel,  but  it  was  her  duty,  for  she  was  his  child,  his  true  and 
very  child  Cordelia!  And  she  kissed  him  (as  she  said)  to  kiss 
away  all  her  sisters'  unkindness,  and  said  that  they  might  be 
ashamed  of  themselves,  to  turn  their  old  kind  father  with  his 
white   beard   out   into   the    cold    air,  when   her   enemy's    dog, 

[155  J 


TALES    FROM 

though  it  had  bit  her  (as  she  prettily  expressed  it),  should 
have  stayed  by  her  fire  such  a  night  as  that,  and  warmed 
himself.  And  she  told  her  father  how  she  had  come  from 
France  with  purpose  to  bring  him  assistance;  and  he  said  that 
she  must  forget  and  forgive,  for  he  was  old  and  foolish  and  did 
not  know  what  he  did;  but  that  to  be  sure  she  had  great  cause 
not  to  love  him,  but  her  sisters  had  none.  And  Cordelia  said 
that  she  had  no  cause,  no  more  than  they  had. 

So  we  will  leave  this  old  king  in  the  protection  of  his  dutiful 
and  loving  child,  where,  by  the  help  of  sleep  and  medicine,  she 
and  her  physicians  at  length  succeeded  in  winding  up  the  untuned 
and  jarring  senses  which  the  cruelty  of  his  other  daughters  had 
so  violently  shaken.  Let  us  return  to  say  a  word  or  two  about 
those  cruel  daughters. 

These  monsters  of  ingratitude,  who  had  been  so  false  to  their 
old  father,  could  not  be  expected  to  prove  more  faithful  to  their 
own  husbands.  They  soon  grew  tired  of  paying  even  the  appear- 
ance of  duty  and  affection,  and  in  an  open  way  showed  they  had 
fixed  their  loves  upon  another.  It  happened  that  the  object  of 
their  guilty  loves  was  the  same.  It  was  Edmund,  a  natural  son 
of  the  late  Earl  of  Gloucester,  who  by  bis  treacheries  had  suc- 
ceeded in  disinheriting  his  brother  Edgar,  the  lawful  heir,  from 
his  earldom,  and  by  his  wicked  practices  was  now  earl  himself; 
a  wicked  man,  and  a  fit  object  for  the  love  of  such  wicked  creatures 
as  Goneril  and  Regan.  It  falling  out  about  this  time  that  the 
Duke  of  Cornwall,  Regan's  husband,  died,  Regan  immediately 
declared  her  intention  of  wedding  this  Earl  of  Gloucester,  which 
rousing  the  jealousy  of  her  sister,  to  whom  as  well  as  to  Regan 
this  wicked  earl  had  at  sundry  times  professed  love,  Goneril 
found  means  to  make  away  with  her  sister  by  poison;  but  being 
detected  in  her  practices,  and  imprisoned  by  her  husband,  the 
Duke  of  Albany,  for  this  deed,  and  for  her  guilty  passion  for  the 
earl  which  had  come  to  his  ears,  she,  in  a  fit  of  disappointed  love 
and  rage,  shortly  put  an  end  to  her  own  life.  Thus  the  justice 
of  Heaven  at  last  overtook  these  wicked  daughters. 

[156] 


"HOWL,    HOWL,    HOWL,    HOWL!     O,  YOU   ARE   MEN 

OF  STONES" 


SHAKESPEARE 

While  the  eyes  of  all  men  were  upon  this  event,  admiring  the 
justice  displayed  in  their  deserved  deaths,  the  same  eyes  were 
suddenly  taken  off  from  this  sight  to  admire  at  the  mysterious 
ways  of  the  same  power  in  the  melancholy  fate  of  the  young  and 
virtuous  daughter,  the  Lady  Cordelia,  whose  good  deeds  did 
seem  to  deserve  a  more  fortunate  conclusion.  But  it  is  an  awful 
truth  that  innocence  and  piety  are  not  always  successful  in  this 
world.  The  forces  which  Goneril  and  Regan  had  sent  out  under 
the  command  of  the  bad  Earl  of  Gloucester  were  victorious,  and 
Cordelia,  by  the  practices  of  this  wicked  earl,  who  did  not  like 
that  any  should  stand  between  him  and  the  throne,  ended  her  life 
in  prison.  Thus  heaven  took  this  innocent  lady  to  itself  in  her 
young  years,  after  showing  her  to  the  world  an  illustrious  example 
of  filial  duty.     Lear  did  not  long  survive  this  kind  child. 

Before  he  died,  the  good  Earl  of  Kent,  who  had  still  attended 
his  old  master's  steps  from  the  first  of  his  daughters'  ill-usage  to 
this  sad  period  of  his  decay,  tried  to  make  him  understand  that 
it  was  he  who  had  followed  him  under  the  name  of  Caius;  but 
Lear's  care-crazed  brain  at  that  time  could  not  comprehend 
how  that  could  be,  or  how  Kent  and  Caius  could  be  the  same 
person,  so  Kent  thought  it  needless  to  trouble  him  with  ex- 
planations at  such  a  time;  and,  Lear  soon  after  expiring,  this 
faithful  servant  to  the  king,  between  age  and  grief  for  his  old 
master's  vexations,  soon  followed  him  to  the  grave. 

How  the  judgment  of  Heaven  overtook  the  bad  Earl  of  Glouces- 
ter, whose  treasons  were  discovered,  and  himself  slain  in  single 
combat  with  his  brother,  the  lawful  earl,  and  how  Gondii's 
husband,  the  Duke  of  Albany,  who  was  innocent  of  the  death 
of  Cordelia,  and  had  never  encouraged  his  lady  in  her  wicked 
proceedings  against  her  father,  ascended  the  throne  of  Britain 
after  the  death  of  Lear,  it  is  needless  here  to  narrate,  Lear  and 
his  three  daughters  being  dead,  whose  adventures  alone  concern 
our  story. 


TALES    FROM 


MACBETH 


,HEN  Duncan  the  Meek  reigned  King  of 
Scotland  there  lived  a  great  thane,  or 
lord,  called  Macbeth.  This  Macbeth 
was  a  near  kinsman  to  the  king,  and  in 
great  esteem  at  court  for  his  valor  and 
conduct  in  the  wars,  an  example  of 
which  he  had  lately  given  in  defeating 
a  rebel  army  assisted  by  the  troops  of 
Norway  in  terrible  numbers. 
The  two  Scottish  generals,  Macbeth  and  Banquo,  returning 
victorious  from  this  great  battle,  their  way  lay  over  a  blasted 
heath,  where  they  were  stopped  by  the  strange  appearance  of 
three  figures  like  women,  except  that  they  had  beards,  and  their 
withered  skins  and  wild  attire  made  them  look  not  like  any 
earthly  creatures.  Macbeth  first  addressed  them,  when  they, 
seemingly  offended,  laid  each  one  her  choppy  finger  upon  her 
skinny  lips,  in  token  of  silence;  and  the  first  of  them  saluted 
Macbeth  with  the  title  of  Thane  of  Glamis.  The  general  was  not 
a  little  startled  to  find  himself  known  by  such  creatures;  but 
how  much  more,  when  the  second  of  them  followed  up  that 
salute  by  giving  him  the  title  of  Thane  of  Cawdor,  to  which 
honor  he  had  no  pretensions;  and  again  the  third  bid  him,  "All 
hail!  that  shalt  be  king  hereafter!"  Such  a  prophetic  greeting 
might  well  amaze  him,  who  knew  that  while  the  king's  sons  lived 
he  could  not  hope  to  succeed  to  the  throne.  Then  turning  to 
Banquo,  they  pronounced  him,  in  a  sort  of  riddling  terms,  to  be 
lesser  than  Macbeth,  and  greater!  not  so  happy,  but  much  happier! 
and  prophesied  that  though  he  should  never  reign,  yet  his  sons 
after  him  should  be  kings  in  Scotland.     They  then  turned  into 

[  *6o] 


SHAKESPEARE 


air  and  vanished;   by  which  the  generals  knew  them  to  be  the 
weird  sisters,  or  witches. 

While  they  stood  pondering  on  the  strangeness  of  this  ad- 
venture there  arrived  certain  messengers  from  the  king,  who 
were  empowered  by  him  to 
confer  upon  Macbeth  the 
dignity  of  Thane  of  Cawdor. 
An  event  so  miraculously 
corresponding  with  the  pre- 
diction of  the  witches  as- 
tonished Macbeth,  and  he 
stood  wrapped  in  amaze- 
ment, unable  to  make  reply 
to  the  messengers;  and  in 
that  point  of  time  swelling 
hopes  arose  in  his  mind  that 
the  prediction  of  the  third 
witch  might  in  like  manner 
have  its  accomplishment, 
and  that  he  should  one  day 
reign  king  in  Scotland. 

Turning  to  Banquo,  he 
said,  "Do  you  not  hope 
that  your  children  shall  be 
kings,  when  wh  at  th  e  witches 
promised  to  me  has  so  won- 
derfully come  to  pass?" 

"That  hope,"  answered  the  general,  "might  enkindle  you  to 
aim  at  the  throne;  but  oftentimes  these  ministers  of  darkness 
tell  us  truths  in  little  things,  to  betray  us  into  deeds  of  greatest 
consequence." 

But  the  wicked  suggestions  of  the  witches  had  sunk  too  deep 
into  the  mind  of  Macbeth  to  allow  him  to  attend  to  the  warnings 
of  the  good  Banquo.     From  that  time  he  bent  all  his  thoughts 
how  to  compass  the  throne  of  Scotland. 
11  fi6i] 


TALES    FROM 


Macbeth  had  a  wife,  to  whom  he  communicated  the  strange 
prediction  of  the  weird  sisters  and  its  partial  accomplishment. 
She  was  a  bad,  ambitious  woman,  and  so  as  her  husband  and 

herself  could  arrive  at  great- 
ness she  cared  not  much  by 
what  means.  She  spurred  on 
the  reluctant  purpose  of  Mac- 
beth, who  felt  compunction  at 
the  thoughts  of  blood,  and  did 
not  cease  to  represent  the  mur- 
der of  the  king  as  a  step  abso- 
lutely necessary  to  the  fulfil- 
ment of  the  flattering  prophecy. 
It  happened  at  this  time  that 
the  king,  who  out  of  his  royal 
condescension  would  oftentimes 
visit  his  principal  nobility  upon 
gracious  terms,  came  to  Mac- 
beth 's  house,  attended  by  his 
two  sons,  Malcolm  and  Donal- 
bain,  and  a  numerous  train  of 
thanes  and  attendants,  the 
more  to  honor  Macbeth  for  the 
triumphal  success  of  his  wars. 

The  castle  of  Macbeth  was 
pleasantly  situated  and  the  air 
about  it  was  sweet  and  whole- 
some, which  appeared  by  the 
nests  which  the  martlet,  or  swallow,  had  built  under  all  [the 
jutting  friezes  and  buttresses  of  the  building,  wherever  it  found 
a  place  of  advantage;  for  where  those  birds  most  breed  and 
haunt  the  air  is  observed  to  be  delicate.  The  king  entered, 
well  pleased  with  the  place,  and  not  less  so  with  the  atten- 
tions and  respect  of  his  honored  hostess,  Lady  Macbeth,  who 
had   the   art   of   covering   treacherous    purposes   with    smiles, 

[162] 


SHAKESPEARE 


and  could  look  like  the  innocent  flower  while  she  was  indeed 
the  serpent  under  it. 

The  king,  being  tired  with  his  journey,  went  early  to  bed,  and 
in  his  state-room  two  grooms  of  his  chamber  (as  was  the  custom) 
slept  beside  him.  He  had  been  unusually 
pleased  with  his  reception,  and  had  made 
presents  before  he  retired  to  his  principal 
officers;  and  among  the  rest  had  sent  a 
rich  diamond  to  Lady  Macbeth,  greeting 
her  by  the  name  of  his  most  kind  hostess. 

Now  was  the  middle  of  night,  when  over 
half  the  world  nature  seems  dead,  and 
wicked  dreams  abuse  men's  minds  asleep, 
and  none  but  the  wolf  and  the  murderer 
are  abroad.  This  was  the  time  when  Lady 
Macbeth  waked  to  plot  the  murder  of  the 
king.  She  would  not  have  undertaken  a 
deed  so  abhorrent  to  her  sex  but  that  she 
feared  her  husband's  nature,  that  it  was 
too  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness  to 
do  a  contrived  murder.  She  knew  him  to 
be  ambitious,  but  w'thal  to  be  scrupulous, 
and  not  yet  prepared  for  that  height  of 
crime  which  commonly  in  the  end  accom- 
panies inordinate  ambition.  She  had  won 
him  to  consent  to  the  murder,  but  she 
doubted  his  resolution;  and  she  feared 
that  the  natural  tenderness  of  his  disposi- 
tion (more  humane  than  her  own)  would  come  between  and 
defeat  the  purpose.  So  with  her  own  hands  armed  with  a 
dagger  she  approached  the  king's  bed,  having  taken  care  to 
ply  the  grooms  of  his  chamber  so  with  wine  that  they  slept 
intoxicated  and  careless  of  their  charge.  There  lay  Duncan  in 
a  sound  sleep  after  the  fatigues  of  his  journey,  and  as  she 
viewed  him  earnestly  there  was  something   in  his  face,  as  he 

[163] 


TALES    FROM 

slept,  which  resembled  her  own  father,  and  she  had  not  the 

courage  to  proceed. 

She  returned  to  confer  with  her  husband.  His  resolution  had 
begun  to  stagger.  He  considered  that  there  were  strong  reasons 
against  the  deed.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  not  only  a  subject, 
but  a  near  kinsman  to  the  king;  and  he  had  been  his  host  and 
entertainer  that  day,  whose  duty,  by  the  laws  of  hospitality, 
it  was  to  shut  the  door  against  his  murderers,  not  bear  the  knife 
himself.  Then  he  considered  how  just  and  merciful  a  king  this 
Duncan  had  been,  how  clear  of  offense  to  his  subjects,  how  loving 
to  his  nobility,  and  in  particular  to  him;  that  such  kings  are  the 
peculiar  care  of  Heaven,  and  their  subjects  doubly  bound  to 
revenge  their  deaths.  Besides,  by  the  favors  of  the  king,  Mac- 
beth stood  high  in  the  opinion  of  all  sorts  of  men,  and  how 
would  those  honors  be  stained  by  the  reputation  of  so  foul  a 
murder! 

In  these  conflicts  of  the  mind  Lady  Macbeth  found  her  husband 
inclining  to  the  better  part  and  resolving  to  proceed  no  further. 
But  she,  being  a  woman  not  easily  shaken  from  her  evil  purpose, 
began  to  pour  in  at  his  ears  words  which  infused  a  portion  of  her 
own  spirit  into  his  mind,  assigning  reason  upon  reason  why  he 
should  not  shrink  from  what  he  had  undertaken;  how  easy  the 
deed  was;  how  soon  it  would  be  over;  and  how  the  action  of 
one  short  night  would  give  to  all  their  nights  and  days  to  come 
sovereign  sway  and  royalty!  Then  she  threw  contempt  on  his 
change  of  purpose,  and  accused  him  of  fickleness  and  cowardice; 
and  declared  that  she  had  given  suck,  and  knew  how  tender  it 
was  to  love  the  babe  that  milked  her,  but  she  would,  while  it  was 
smiling  in  her  face,  have  plucked  it  from  her  breast  and  dashed 
its  brains  out  if  she  had  so  sworn  to  do  it  as  he  had  sworn  to 
perform  that  murder.  Then  she  added,  how  practicable  it  was 
to  lay  the  guilt  of  the  deed  upon  the  drunken,  sleepy  grooms. 
And  with  the  valor  of  her  tongue  she  so  chastised  his  sluggish 
resolutions  that  he  once  more  summoned  up  courage  to  the 
bloody  business. 

[164] 


SHAKESPEARE 


So,  taking  the  dagger  in  his  hand,  he  softly  stole  in  the  dark  to 
the  room  where  Duncan  lay;  and  as  he  went  he  thought  he  saw 
another  dagger  in  the  air,  with  the  handle  toward  him,  and  on 
the  blade  and  at 
the  point  of  it 
drops  of  blood ; 
but  when  he  tried 
to  grasp  at  it  it 
was  nothing  but 
air,  a  mere 
phantasm  pro- 
ceeding from  his 
own  hot  and  op- 
pressed brain  and 
the  business  he 
had  in  hand. 

Getting  rid  of 
this  fear,  he  en- 
tered the  king's 
room,  whom  he 
despatched  with 
one  stroke  of  his 
dagger.  Just  as 
he  had  done  the 
murder  one  of 
the  grooms  who 
slept  in  the  cham- 
ber laughed  in 
his  sleep,  and 
the  other  cried, 
"Murder,"  which 
woke  them  both. 
But  they  said  a  short  prayer;  one  of  them  said,  "God 
bless  us!"  and  the  other  answered,  "Amen";  and  addressed 
themselves  to  sleep  again.    Macbeth,  who  stood  listening  to 

1 165] 


TALES    FROM 

them,  tried  to  say  "Amen"  when  the  fellow  said  "God  bless 
us!"  but,  though  he  had  most  need  of  a  blessing,  the  word  stuck 
in  his  throat  and  he  could  not  pronounce  it. 

Again  he  thought  he  heard  a  voice  which  cried:  "Sleep  no 
more!  Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep,  the  innocent  sleep,  that 
nourishes  life."  Still  it  cried,  "Sleep  no  more!"  to  all  the  house. 
"Glamis  hath  murdered  sleep,  and  therefore  Cawdor  shall  sleep 
no  more,  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more." 

With  such  horrible  imaginations  Macbeth  returned  to  his 
listening  wife,  who  began  to  think  he  had  failed  of  his  purpose 
and  that  the  deed  was  somehow  frustrated.  He  came  in  so  dis- 
tracted a  state  that  she  reproached  him  with  his  want  of  firmness 
and  sent  him  to  wash  his  hands  of  the  blood  which  stained  them, 
while  she  took  his  dagger,  with  purpose  to  stain  the  cheeks  of  the 
grooms  with  blood,  to  make  it  seem  their  guilt. 

Morning  came,  and  with  it  the  discovery  of  the  murder,  which 
could  not  be  concealed;  and  though  Macbeth  and  his  lady 
made  great  show  of  grief,  and  the  proofs  against  the  grooms 
(the  dagger  being  produced  against  them  and  their  faces  smeared 
with  blood)  were  sufficiently  strong,  yet  the  entire  suspicion  fell 
upon  Macbeth,  whose  inducements  to  such  a  deed  were  so 
much  more  forcible  than  such  poor  silly  grooms  could  be  sup- 
posed to  have;  and  Duncan's  two  sons  fled.  Malcolm,  the 
eldest,  sought  for  refuge  in  the  English  court;  and  the  youngest, 
Donalbain,  made  his  escape  to  Ireland. 

The  king's  sons,  who  should  have  succeeded  him,  having  thus 
vacated  the  throne,  Macbeth  as  next  heir  was  crowned  king, 
and  thus  the  prediction  of  the  weird  sisters  was  literally  ac- 
complished. 

Though  placed  so  high,  Macbeth  and  his  queen  could  not  forget 
the  prophecy  of  the  weird  sisters  that,  though  Macbeth  should 
be  king,  yet  not  his  children,  but  the  children  of  Banquo,  should 
be  kings  after  him.  The  thought  of  this,  and  that  they  had 
defiled  their  hands  with  blood,  and  done  so  great  crimes,  only 
to  place  the  posterity  of  Banquo  upon  the  throne,  so  rankled 

[166] 


SHAKESPEARE 

within  them  that  they  determined  to  put  to  death  both  Banquo 
and  his  son,  to  make  void  the  predictions  of  the  weird  sisters, 
which  in  their  own  case  had  been  so  remarkably  brought  to  pass. 

For  this  purpose  they  made  a  great  supper,  to  which  they 
invited  all  the  chief  thanes;  and  among  the  rest,  with  marks 
of  particular  respect,  Banquo  and  his  son  Fleance  were  invited. 
The  way  by  which  Banquo  was  to  pass  to  the  palace  at  night  was 
beset  by  murderers  appointed  by  Macbeth,  who  stabbed  Banquo; 
but  in  the  scuffle  Fleance  escaped.  From  that  Fleance  descended 
a  race  of  monarchs  who  afterward  filled  the  Scottish  throne, 
ending  with  James  the  Sixth  of  Scotland  and  the  First  of  England, 
under  whom  the  two  crowns  of  England  and  Scotland  were  united. 

At  supper,  the  queen,  whose  manners  were  in  the  highest  degree 
affable  and  royal,  played  the  hostess  with  a  gracefulness  and 
attention  which  conciliated  every  one  present,  and  Macbeth 
discoursed  freely  with  his  thanes  and  nobles,  saying  that  all  that 
was  honorable  in  the  country  was  under  his  roof,  if  he  had  but  his 
good  friend  Banquo  present,  whom  yet  he  hoped  he  should 
rather  have  to  chide  for  neglect  than  to  lament  for  any  mischance. 
Just  at  these  words  the  ghost  of  Banquo,  whom  he  had  caused  to 
be  murdered,  entered  the  room  and  placed  himself  on  the  chair 
which  Macbeth  was  about  to  occupy.  Though  Macbeth  was  a 
bold  man,  and  one  that  could  have  faced  the  devil  without  trem- 
bling, at  this  horrible  sight  his  cheeks  turned  white  with  fear 
and  he  stood  quite  unmanned,  with  his  eyes  fixed  upon  the  ghost. 
His  queen  and  all  the  nobles,  who  saw  nothing,  but  perceived 
him  gazing  (as  they  thought)  upon  an  empty  chair,  took  it  for 
a  fit  of  distraction;  and  she  reproached  him,  whispering  that  it 
was  but  the  same  fancy  which  made  him  see  the  dagger  in  the  air 
when  he  was  about  to  kill  Duncan.  But  Macbeth  continued  to 
see  the  ghost,  and  gave  no  heed  to  all  they  could  say,  while  he 
addressed  it  with  distracted  words,  yet  so  significant  that  his 
queen,  fearing  the  dreadful  secret  would  be  disclosed,  in  great 
haste  dismissed  the  guests,  excusing  the  infirmity  of  Macbeth  as 
a  disorder  he  was  often  troubled  with. 

[167  J 


TALE  S    FR  OM 

To  such  dreadful  fancies  Macbeth  was  subject.  His  queen 
and  he  had  their  sleeps  afflicted  with  terrible  dreams,  and  the 
blood  of  Banquo  troubled  them  not  more  than  the  escape  of 
Fleance,  whom  now  they  looked  upon  as  father  to  a  line  of  kings 
who  should  keep  their  posterity  out  of  the  throne.  With  these 
miserable  thoughts  they  found  no  peace,  and  Macbeth  deter- 
mined once  more  to  seek  out  the  weird  sisters  and  know  from 
them  the  worst. 

Fie  sought  them  in  a  cave  upon  the  heath,  where  they,  who 
knew  by  foresight  of  his  coming,  were  engaged  in  preparing  their 
dreadful  charms  by  which  they  conjured  up  infernal  spirits  to 
reveal  to  them  futurity.  Their  horrid  ingredients  were  toads, 
bats,  and  serpents,  the  eye  of  a  newt  and  the  tongue  of  a  dog, 
the  leg  of  a  lizard  and  the  wing  of  the  night-owl,  the  scale  of  a 
dragon,  the  tooth  of  a  wolf,  the  maw  of  the  ravenous  salt-sea 
shark,  the  mummy  of  a  witch,  the  root  of  the  poisonous  hemlock 
(this  to  have  effect  must  be  digged  in  the  dark),  the  gall  of  a 
goat,  and  the  liver  of  a  Jew,  with  slips  of  the  yew-tree  that  roots 
itself  in  graves,  and  the  finger  of  a  dead  child.  All  these  were 
set  on  to  boil  in  a  great  kettle,  or  caldron,  which,  as  fast  as  it 
grew  too  hot,  was  cooled  with  a  baboon's  blood.  To  these  they 
poured  in  the  blood  of  a  sow  that  had  eaten  her  young,  and  they 
threw  into  the  flame  the  grease  that  had  sweaten  from  a  mur- 
derer's gibbet.  By  these  charms  they  bound  the  infernal  spirits 
to  answer  their  questions. 

It  was  demanded  of  Macbeth  whether  he  would  have  his 
doubts  resolved  by  them  or  by  their  masters,  the  spirits. 

He,  nothing  daunted  by  the  dreadful  ceremonies  which  he  saw, 
boldly  answered:    "Where  are  they?     Let  me  see  them." 

And  they  called  the  spirits,  which  were  three.  And  the  first 
arose  in  the  likeness  of  an  armed  head,  and  he  called  Macbeth 
by  name  and  bid  him  beware  of  the  Thane  of  Fife;  for  which 
caution  Macbeth  thanked  him;  for  Macbeth  had  entertained  a 
jealousy  of  Macduff,  the  Thane  of  Fife. 

And  the  second  spirit  arose  in  the  likeness  of  a  bloody  child, 

[168] 


"MACBETH,   BEWARE   OF  MACDUFF,   THE  THANE 

OF  FIFE1" 


SHAKESPEARE 

and  he  called  Macbeth  by  name  and  bid  him  have  no  fear,  but 
laugh  to  scorn  the  power  of  man,  for  none  of  woman  born 
should  have  power  to  hurt  him;  and  he  advised  him  to  be  bloody, 
bold,  and  resolute. 

"Then  live,  Macduff!"  cried  the  king.  "What  need  I  fear 
of  thee?  But  yet  I  will  make  assurance  doubly  sure.  Thou 
shalt  not  live,  that  I  may  tell  pale-hearted  fear  it  lies,  and  sleep 
in  spite  of  thunder." 

That  spirit  being  dismissed,  a  third  arose  in  the  form  of  a  child 
crowned,  with  a  tree  in  his  hand.  He  called  Macbeth  by  name 
and  comforted  him  against  conspiracies,  saying  that  he  should 
never  be  vanquished  until  the  wood  of  Birnam  to  Dunsinane  hill 
should  come  against  him. 

"Sweet  bodements!  good!"  cried  Macbeth;  "who  can  unfix 
the  forest,  and  move  it  from  its  earth-bound  roots?  I  see  I  shall 
live  the  usual  period  of  man's  life,  and  not  be  cut  off  by  a  violent 
death.  But  my  heart  throbs  to  know  one  thing.  Tell  me,  if 
your  art  can  tell  so  much,  if  Banquo's  issue  shall  ever  reign  in  this 
kingdom?" 

Here  the  caldron  sank  into  the  ground,  and  a  noise  of  music 
was  heard,  and  eight  shadows,  like  kings,  passed  by  Macbeth, 
and  Banquo  last,  who  bore  a  glass  which  showed  the  figures  of 
many  more,  and  Banquo,  all  bloody,  smiled  upon  Macbeth,  and 
pointed  to  them;  by  which  Macbeth  knew  that  these  were  the 
posterity  of  Banquo,  who  should  reign  after  him  in  Scotland; 
and  the  witches,  with  a  sound  of  soft  music,  and  with  dancing, 
making  a  show  of  duty  and  welcome  to  Macbeth,  vanished. 
And  from  this  time  the  thoughts  of  Macbeth  were  all  bloody  and 
dreadful. 

The  first  thing  he  heard  when  he  got  out  of  the  witches'  cave 
was  that  Macduff,  Thane  of  Fife,  had  fled  to  England  to  join 
the  army  which  was  forming  against  him  under  Malcolm,  the 
eldest  son  of  the  late  king,  with  intent  to  displace  Macbeth  and 
set  Malcolm,  the  right  heir,  upon  the  throne.  Macbeth,  stung 
with  rage,  set  upon  the  castle  of  Macduff  and  put  his  wife  and 

[171] 


TALES    FROM 

children,  whom  the  thane  had  left  behind,  to  the  sword,  and 
extended  the  slaughter  to  all  who  claimed  the  least  relationship 
to  Macduff. 

These  and  such-like  deeds  alienated  the  minds  of  all  his  chief 
nobility  from  him.  Such  as  could  fled  to  join  with  Malcolm  and 
Macduff,  who  were  now  approaching  with  a  powerful  army  which 
they  had  raised  in  England;  and  the  rest  secretly  wished  success 
to  their  arms,  though,  for  fear  of  Macbeth,  they  could  take  no 
active  part.  His  recruits  went  on  slowly.  Everybody  hated  the 
tyrant;  nobody  loved  or  honored  him;  but  all  suspected  him; 
and  he  began  to  envy  the  condition  of  Duncan,  whom  he  had 
murdered,  who  slept  soundly  in  his  grave,  against  whom  treason 
had  done  its  worst.  Steel  nor  poison,  domestic  malice  nor  foreign 
levies,  could  hurt  him  any  longer. 

While  these  things  were  acting,  the  queen,  who  had  been  the 
sole  partner  in  his  wickedness,  in  whose  bosom  he  could  some- 
times seek  a  momentary  repose  from  those  terrible  dreams 
which  afflicted  them  both  nightly,  died,  it  is  supposed,  by 
her  own  hands,  unable  to  bear  the  remorse  of  guilt  and  public 
hate;  by  which  event  he  was  left  alone,  without  a  soul  to 
love  or  care  for  him,  or  a  friend  to  whom  he  could  confide 
his  wicked  purposes. 

He  grew  careless  of  life  and  wished  for  death;  but  the  near 
approach  of  Malcolm's  army  roused  in  him  what  remained  of  his 
ancient  courage,  and  he  determined  to  die  (as  he  expressed  it) 
"with  armor  on  his  back."  Besides  this,  the  hollow  promises  of 
the  witches  had  filled  him  with  a  false  confidence,  and  he  re- 
membered the  sayings  of  the  spirits,  that  none  of  woman  born  was 
to  hurt  him,  and  that  he  was  never  to  be  vanquished  till  Birnam 
wood  should  come  to  Dunsinane,  which  he  thought  could  never 
be.  So  he  shut  himself  up  in  his  castle,  whose  impregnable 
strength  was  such  as  defied  a  siege.  Here  he  sullenly  waited 
the  approach  of  Malcolm.  When,  upon  a  day,  there  came  a 
messenger  to  him,  pale  and  shaking  with  fear,  almost  unable 
to  report  that  which  he  had  seen;  for  he  averred  that  as  he  stood 

[172] 


SHAKESPEARE 

upon  his  watch  on  the  hill  he  looked  toward  Birnam,  and  to  his 
thinking  the  wood  began  to  move! 

"Liar  and  slave!"  cried  Macbeth.  "If  thou  speakest  false,  thou 
shalt  hang  alive  upon  the  next  tree,  till  famine  end  thee.  If 
thy  tale  be  true,  I  care  not  if  thou  dost  as  much  by  me";  for 
Macbeth  now  began  to  faint  in  resolution,  and  to  doubt  the 
equivocal  speeches  of  the  spirits.  He  was  not  to  fear  till  Birnam 
wood  should  come  to  Dunsinane;  and  now  a  wood  did  move! 
"However,"  said  he,  "if  this  which  he  avouches  be  true,  let  us 
arm  and  out.  There  is  no  flying  hence,  nor  staying  here.  I 
begin  to  be  weary  of  the  sun,  and  wish  my  life  at  an  end." 
With  these  desperate  speeches  he  sallied  forth  upon  the  besiegers, 
who  had  now  come  up  to  the  castle. 

The  strange  appearance  which  had  given  the  messenger  an  idea 
of  a  wood  moving  is  easily  solved.  When  the  besieging  army 
marched  through  the  wood  of  Birnam,  Malcolm,  like  a  skilful 
general,  instructed  his  soldiers  to  hew  down  every  one  a  bough 
and  bear  it  before  him,  by  way  of  concealing  the  true  numbers 
of  his  host.  This  marching  of  the  soldiers  with  boughs  had  at  a  dis- 
tance the  appearance  which  had  frightened  the  messenger.  Thus 
were  the  words  of  the  spirit  brought  to  pass,  in  a  sense  different 
from  that  in  which  Macbeth  had  understood  them,  and  one  great 
hold  of  his  confidence  was  gone. 

And  now  a  severe  skirmishing  took  place,  in  which  Macbeth, 
though  feebly  supported  by  those  who  called  themselves  his 
friends,  but  in  reality  hated  the  tyrant  and  inclined  to  the  party 
of  Malcolm  and  Macduff,  yet  fought  with  the  extreme  of  rage  and 
valor,  cutting  to  pieces  all  who  were  opposed  to  him,  till  he  came 
to  where  Macduff  was  fighting.  Seeing  Macduff,  and  remember- 
ing the  caution  of  the  spirit  who  had  counseled  him  to  avoid 
Macduff,  above  all  men,  he  would  have  turned,  but  Macduff, 
who  had  been  seeking  him  through  the  whole  fight,  opposed  his 
turning,  and  a  fierce  contest  ensued,  Macduff  giving  him  many 
foul  reproaches  for  the  murder  of  his  wife  and  children.  Mac- 
beth, whose  soul  was  charged  enough  with  blood  of  that  family 

[i73  J 


TALES    FROM 

already,  would  still  have  declined  the  combat;    but  Macduff 
still  urged  him  to  it,  calling  him  tyrant,  murderer,  hell-hound, 
and  villain. 
Then  Macbeth  remembered  the  words  of  the  spirit,  how  none 

of  woman  born  should 
hurt  him;  and,  smiling 
confidently,  he  said  to 
Macduff: 

"Thou  losest  thy  labor, 
Macduff.  As  easily  thou 
mayest  impress  the  air 
with  thy  sword  as  make 
me  vulnerable.  I  bear  a 
charmed  life,  which  must 
not  yield  to  one  of  woman 
born." 

"Despair  thy  charm/' 
said  Macduff,  "and  let 
that  lying  spirit  whom 
thou  hast  served  tell  thee 
that  Macduff  was  never 
born  of  woman,  never  as 
the  ordinary  manner  of 
men  is  to  be  born,  but 
was  untimely  taken  from 
his  mother." 

"Accursed  be  the 
tongue  which  tells  me  so,"  said  the  trembling  Macbeth,  who 
felt  his  last  hold  of  confidence  give  way;  "and  let  never 
man  in  future  believe  the  lying  equivocations  of  witches 
and  juggling  spirits  who  deceive  us  in  words  which  have 
double  senses,  and,  while  they  keep  their  promise  literally, 
disappoint  our  hopes  with  a  different  meaning.  I  will  not 
fight  with  thee." 

"Then  live!"  said  the  scornful  Macduff.     "We  will  have  a  show 

[i74] 


SHAKESPEARE 

of  thee,  as  men  show  monsters,  and  a  painted  board,  on  which 
shall  be  written,  'Here  men  may  see  the  tyrant!"5 

"Never,"  said  Macbeth,  whose  courage  returned  with  despair. 
"I  will  not  live  to  kiss  the  ground  before  young  Malcolm's  feet 
and  to  be  baited  with  the  curses  of  the  rabble.  Though  Birnam 
wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane,  and  thou  opposed  to  me,  who  wast 
never  born  of  woman,  yet  will  I  try  the  last." 

With  these  frantic  words  he  threw  himself  upon  Macduff,  who, 
after  a  severe  struggle,  in  the  end  overcame  him,  and,  cutting 
off  his  head,  made  a  present  of  it  to  the  young  and  lawful  king, 
Malcolm,  who  took  upon  him  the  government  which,  by  the 
machinations  of  the  usurper,  he  had  so  long  been  deprived  of, 
and  ascended  the  throne  of  Duncan  the  Meek  amid  the  acclama- 
tions of  the  nobles  and  the  people. 


TALES    FROM 


ALL'S   WELL  THAT   ENDS   WELL 


ERTRAM,  Count  of  Rousillon,  had  newly 
come  to  his  title  and  estate  by  the  death 
of  his  father.  The  King  of  France  loved 
the  father  of  Bertram,  and  when  he  heard 
of  his  death  he  sent  for  his  son  to  come 
immediately  to  his  royal  court  in  Paris, 
intending,  for  the  friendship  he  bore  the 
late  count,  to  grace  young  Bertram  with 
his  especial  favor  and  protection. 
Bertram  was  living  with  his  mother,  the  widowed  countess, 
when  Lafeu,  an  old  lord  of  the  French  court,  came  to  conduct 
him  to  the  king.  The  King  of  France  was  an  absolute  monarch 
and  the  invitation  to  court  was  in  the  form  of  a  royal  mandate, 
or  positive  command,  which  no  subject,  of  what  high  dignity  so- 
ever, might  disobey;  therefore,  though  the  countess,  in  parting 
with  this  dear  son,  seemed  a  second  time  to  bury  her  husband, 
whose  loss  she  had  so  lately  mourned,  yet  she  dared  not  to  keep 
him  a  single  day,  but  gave  instant  orders  for  his  departure. 
Lafeu,  who  came  to  fetch  him,  tried  to  comfort  the  countess  for 
the  loss  of  her  late  lord  and  her  son's  sudden  absence;  and  he 
said,  in  a  courtier's  flattering  manner,  that  the  king  was  so 
kind  a  prince,  she  would  find  in  his  Majesty  a  husband,  and 
that  he  would  be  a  father  to  her  son;  meaning  only  that  the 
good  king  would  befriend  the  fortunes  of  Bertram.  Lafeu  told 
the  countess  that  the  king  had  fallen  into  a  sad  malady,  which 
was  pronounced  by  his  physicians  to  be  incurable.  The  lady 
expressed  great  sorrow  on  hearing  this  account  of  the  king's  ill 
health,  and  said  she  wished  the  father  of  Helena  (a  young  gentle- 
woman who  was  present  in  attendance  upon  her)  were  living, 

[176] 


SHAKESPEARE 

for  that  she  doubted  not  he  could  have  cured  his  Majesty  of  his 
disease.  And  she  told  Lafeu  something  of  the  history  of  Helena, 
saying  she  was  the  only  daughter  of  the  famous  physician,  Gerard 
de  Narbon,  and  that  he  had  recommended  his  daughter  to  her 
care  when  he  was  dying,  so  that  since  his  death  she  had  taken 
Helena  under  her  protection;  then  the  countess  praised  the 
virtuous  disposition  and  excellent  qualities  of  Helena,  saying  she 
inherited  these  virtues  from  her  worthy  father.  While  she  was 
speaking,  Helena  wept  in  sad  and  mournful  silence,  which  made 
the  countess  gently  reprove  her  for  too  much  grieving  for  her 
father's  death. 

Bertram  now  bade  his  mother  farewell.  The  countess  parted 
with  this  dear  son  with  tears  and  many  blessings,  and  commended 
him  to  the  care  of  Lafeu,  saying: 

"Good  my  lord,  advise  him,  for  he  is  an  unseasoned  courtier." 

Bertram's  last  words  were  spoken  to  Helena,  but  they  were 
words  of  mere  civility,  wishing  her  happiness;  and  he  concluded 
his  short  farewell  to  her  with  saying: 

"Be  comfortable  to  my  mother,  your  mistress,  and  make  much 
of  her." 

Helena  had  long  loved  Bertram,  and  when  she  wept  in  sad  and 
mournful  silence  the  tears  she  shed  were  not  for  Gerard  de  Narbon. 
Helena  loved  her  father,  but  in  the  present  feeling  of  a  deeper 
love,  the  object  of  which  she  was  about  to  lose,  she  had  forgotten 
the  very  form  and  features  of  her  dead  father,  her  imagination 
presenting  no  image  to  her  mind  but  Bertram's. 

Helena  had  long  loved  Bertram,  yet  she  always  remembered 
that  he  was  the  Count  of  Rousillon,  descended  from  the  most 
ancient  family  in  France.  She  of  humble  birth.  Her  parents  of 
no  note  at  all.  His  ancestors  all  noble.  And  therefore  she  looked 
up  to  the  high-born  Bertram  as  to  her  master  and  to  her  dear 
lord,  and  dared  not  form  any  wish  but  to  live  his  servant,  and, 
so  living,  to  die  his  vassal.  So  great  the  distance  seemed  to  her 
between  his  height  of  dignity  and  her  lowly  fortunes  that  she 
would  say: 
12  [177] 


TALES    FROM 

"It  were  all  one  that  I  should  love  a  bright  particular  star,  and 
think  to  wed  it,  Bertram  is  so  far  above  me." 

Bertram's  absence  filled  her  eyes  with  tears  and  her  heart  with 
sorrow;  for  though  she  loved  without  hope,  yet  it  was  a  pretty 
comfort  to  her  to  see  him  every  hour,  and  Helena  would  sit 
and  look  upon  his  dark  eye,  his  arched  brow,  and  the  curls  of  his 
fine  hair  till  she  seemed  to  draw  his  portrait  on  the  tablet  of  her 
heart,  that  heart  too  capable  of  retaining  the  memory  of  every 
line  in  the  features  of  that  loved  face. 

Gerard  de  Narbon,  when  he  died,  left  her  no  other  portion 
than  some  prescriptions  of  rare  and  well-proved  virtue,  which, 
by  deep  study  and  long  experience  in  medicine,  he  had  collected 
as  sovereign  and  almost  infallible  remedies.  Among  the  rest 
there  was  one  set  down  as  an  approved  medicine  for  the  disease 
under  which  Lafeu  said  the  king  at  that  time  languished;  and 
when  Helena  heard  of  the  king's  complaint,  she,  who  till  now 
had  been  so  humble  and  so  hopeless,  formed  an  ambitious  project 
in  her  mind  to  go  herself  to  Paris  and  undertake  the  cure  of  the 
king.  But  though  Helena  was  the  possessor  of  this  choice  pre- 
scription, it  was  unlikely,  as  the  king  as  well  as  his  physicians 
was  of  opinion  that  his  disease  was  incurable,  that  they  would 
give  credit  to  a  poor  unlearned  virgin  if  she  should  offer  to  per- 
form a  cure.  The  firm  hopes  that  Helena  had  of  succeeding,  if 
she  might  be  permitted  to  make  the  trial,  seemed  more  than  even 
her  father's  skill  warranted,  though  he  was  the  most  famous 
physician  of  his  time;  for  she  felt  a  strong  faith  that  this  good 
medicine  was  sanctified  by  all  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven  to  be 
the  legacy  that  should  advance  her  fortune,  even  to  the  high 
dignity  of  being  Count  Rousillon's  wife. 

Bertram  had  not  been  long  gone  when  the  countess  was  in- 
formed by  her  steward  that  he  had  overheard  Helena  talking  to 
herself,  and  that  he  understood,  from  some  words  she  uttered, 
she  was  in  love  with  Bertram  and  thought  of  following  him 
to  Paris.  The  countess  dismissed  the  steward  with  thanks,  and 
desired  him  to  tell  Helena  she  wished  to  speak  with  her.     What 

[178] 


SHAKESPEARE 

she  had  just  heard  of  Helena  brought  the  remembrance  of  days 
long  past  into  the  mind  of  the  countess;  those  days,  probably, 
when  her  love  for  Bertram's  father  first  began;  and  she  said  to 
herself: 

"Even  so  it  was  with  me  when  I  was  young.  Love  is  a  thorn 
that  belongs  to  the  rose  of  youth;  for  in  the  season  of  youth, 
if  ever  we  are  Nature's  children,  these  faults  are  ours,  though 
then  we  think  not  they  are  faults." 

While  the  countess  was  thus  meditating  on  the  loving  errors  of 
her  own  youth,  Helena  entered,  and  she  said  to  her,  "Helena, 
you  know  I  am  a  mother  to  you." 

Helena  replied,  "You  are  my  honorable  mistress." 

"You  are  my  daughter,"  said  the  countess  again.  "I  say  I 
am  your  mother.  Why  do  you  start  and  look  pale  at  my 
words  ?" 

With  looks  of  alarm  and  confused  thoughts,  fearing  the  countess 
suspected  her  love,  Helena  still  replied,  "Pardon  me,  madam, 
you  are  not  my  mother;  the  Count  Rousillon  cannot  be  my 
brother,  nor  I  your  daughter." 

"Yet,  Helena,"  said  the  countess,  "you  might  be  my  daughter- 
in-law;  and  I  am  afraid  that  is  what  you  mean  to  be,  the  words 
mother  and  daughter  so  disturb  you.  Helena,  do  you  love  my 
son: 

"Good  madam,  pardon  me,"  said  the  affrighted  Helena. 

Again  the  countess  repeated  her  question.  "Do  you  love  my 
son?" 

"Do  not  you  love  him,  madam?"  said  Helena. 

The  countess  replied:  "Give  me  not  this  evasive  answer, 
Helena.  Come,  come,  disclose  the  state  of  your  affections,  for 
your  love  has  to  the  full  appeared." 

Helena,  on  her  knees  now,  owned  her  love,  and  with  shame  and 
terror  implored  the  pardon  of  her  noble  mistress;  and  with  words 
expressive  of  the  sense  she  had  of  the  inequality  between  their 
fortunes  she  protested  Bertram  did  not  know  she  loved  him, 
comparing  her  humble,  unaspiring  love  to  a  poor  Indian  who 

1 179  ] 


TALES    FROM 

adores  the  sun  that  looks  upon  his  worshiper  but  knows  of  him  no 
more.  The  countess  asked  Helena  if  she  had  not  lately  an  intent 
to  go  to  Paris.  Helena  owned  the  design  she  had  formed  in  her 
mind  when  she  heard  Lafeu  speak  of  the  king's  illness. 

"This  was  your  motive  for  wishing  to  go  to  Paris,"  said  the 
countess,  "was  it?     Speak  truly." 

Helena  honestly  answered,  "My  lord  your  son  made  me  to 
think  of  this;  else  Paris  and  the  medicine  and  the  king  had  from 
the  conversation  of  my  thoughts  been  absent  then." 

The  countess  heard  the  whole  of  this  confession  without  saying 
a  word  either  of  approval  or  of  blame,  but  she  strictly  questioned 
Helena  as  to  the  probability  of  the  medicine  being  useful  to  the 
king.  She  found  that  it  was  the  most  prized  by  Gerard  de 
Narbon  of  all  he  possessed,  and  that  he  had  given  it  to  his  daughter 
on  his  death-bed;  and  remembering  the  solemn  promise  she  had 
made  at  that  awful  hour  in  regard  to  this  young  maid,  whose 
destiny,  and  the  life  of  the  king  himself,  seemed  to  depend  on  the 
execution  of  a  project  (which,  though  conceived  by  the  fond 
suggestions  of  a  loving  maiden's  thoughts,  the  countess  knew 
not  but  it  might  be  the  unseen  workings  of  Providence  to  bring 
to  pass  the  recovery  of  the  king  and  to  lay  the  foundation  of  the 
future  fortunes  of  Gerard  de  Narbon's  daughter),  free  leave  she 
gave  to  Helena  to  pursue  her  own  way,  and  generously  furnished 
her  with  ample  means  and  suitable  attendants;  and  Helena  set 
out  for  Paris  with  the  blessings  of  the  countess  and  her  kindest 
wishes  for  her  success. 

Helena  arrived  at  Paris,  and  by  the  assistance  of  her  friend,  the 
old  Lord  Lafeu,  she  obtained  an  audience  of  the  king.  She  had 
still  many  difficulties  to  encounter,  for  the  king  was  not  easily 
prevailed  on  to  try  the  medicine  offered  him  by  this  fair  young 
doctor.  But  she  told  him  she  was  Gerard  de  Narbon's  daughter 
(with  whose  fame  the  king  was  well  acquainted),  and  she  offered 
the  precious  medicine  as  the  darling  treasure  which  contained  the 
essence  of  all  her  father's  long  experience  and  skill,  and  she 
boldly  engaged  to  forfeit  her  life  if  it  failed  to  restore  his  Majesty 

[180J 


"I   DARE  NOT  SAY,   MY  LORD,   I  TAKE  YOU" 


SHAKESPEARE 

to  perfect  health  in  the  space  of  two  days.  The  king  at  length 
consented  to  try  it,  and  in  two  days'  time  Helena  was  to  lose  her 
life  if  the  king  did  not  recover;  but  if  she  succeeded,  he  promised 
to  give  her  the  choice  of  any  man  throughout  all  France  (the 
princes  only  excepted)  whom  she  could  like  for  a  husband;  the 
choice  of  a  husband  being  the  fee  Helena  demanded  if  she  cured 
the  king  of  his  disease. 

Helena  did  not  deceive  herself  in  the  hope  she  conceived  of 
the  efficacy  of  her  father's  medicine.  Before  two  days  were  at 
an  end  the  king  was  restored  to  perfect  health,  and  he  assembled 
all  the  young  noblemen  of  his  court  together,  in  order  to  confer 
the  promised  reward  of  a  husband  upon  his  fair  physician;  and 
he  desired  Helena  to  look  round  on  this  youthful  parcel  of  noble 
bachelors  and  choose  her  husband.  Helena  was  not  slow  to  make 
her  choice,  for  among  these  young  lords  she  saw  the  Count 
Rousillon,  and,  turning  to  Bertram,  she  said: 

"This  is  the  man.  I  dare  not  say,  my  lord,  I  take  you,  but  I 
give  me  and  my  service  ever  whilst  I  live  into  your  guiding 
power." 

"Why,  then,"  said  the  king,  "young  Bertram,  take  her;  she 
is  your  wife." 

Bertram  did  not  hesitate  to  declare  his  dislike  to  this  present 
of  the  king's  of  the  self-offered  Helena,  who,  he  said,  was  a  poor 
physician's  daughter,  bred  at  his  father's  charge,  and  now  living 
a  dependent  on  his  mother's  bounty. 

Helena  heard  him  speak  these  words  of  rejection  and  of  scorn, 
and  she  said  to  the  king:  "That  you  are  well,  my  lord,  I  am  glad. 
Let  the  rest  go." 

But  the  king  would  not  suffer  his  royal  command  to  be  so 
slighted,  for  the  power  of  bestowing  their  nobles  in  marriage 
was  one  of  the  many  privileges  of  the  kings  of  France,  and  that 
same  day  Bertram  was  married  to  Helena,  a  forced  and  uneasy 
marriage  to  Bertram,  and  of  no  promising  hope  to  the  poor  lady, 
who,  though  she  gained  the  noble  husband  she  had  hazarded 
her  life  to  obtain,  seemed  to  have  won  but  a  splendid  blank,  her 

[  183  ] 


TA  LE  S    FROM 

husband's  love  not  being  a  gift  in  the  power  of  the  King  of  France 
to  bestow. 

Helena  was  no  sooner  married  than  she  was  desired  by  Bertram 
to  apply  to  the  king  for  him  for  leave  of  absence  from  court; 
and  when  she  brought  him  the  king's  permission  for  his  departure, 
Bertram  told  her  that  he  was  not  prepared  for  this  sudden  mar- 
riage, it  had  much  unsettled  him,  and  therefore  she  must  not 
wonder  at  the  course  he  should  pursue.  If  Helena  wondered  not, 
she  grieved  when  she  found  it  was  his  intention  to  leave  her. 
He  ordered  her  to  go  home  to  his  mother.  When  Helena  heard 
this  unkind  command,  she  replied: 

"Sir,  I  can  nothing  say  to  this  but  that  I  am  your  most  obedient 
servant,  and  shall  ever  with  true  observance  seek  to  eke  out  that 
desert  wherein  my  homely  stars  have  failed  to  equal  my  great 
fortunes." 

But  this  humble  speech  of  Helena's  did  not  at  all  move  the 
haughty  Bertram  to  pity  his  gentle  wife,  and  he  parted  from  her 
without  even  the  common  civility  of  a  kind  farewell. 

Back  to  the  countess  then  Helena  returned.  She  had  ac- 
complished the  purport  of  her  journey,  she  had  preserved  the  life 
of  the  king,  and  she  had  wedded  her  heart's  dear  lord,  the  Count 
Rousillon;  but  she  returned  back  a  dejected  lady  to  her  noble 
mother-in-law,  and  as  soon  as  she  entered  the  house  she  received 
a  letter  from  Bertram  which  almost  broke  her  heart. 

The  good  countess  received  her  with  a  cordial  welcome,  as  if 
she  had  been  her  son's  own  choice  and  a  lady  of  a  high  degree, 
and  she  spoke  kind  words  to  comfort  her  for  the  unkind  neglect 
of  Bertram  in  sending  his  wife  home  on  her  bridal  day  alone. 
But  this  gracious  reception  failed  to  cheer  the  sad  mind  of  Helena, 
and  she  said: 

"Madam,  my  lord  is  gone,  forever  gone."  She  then  read  these 
words  out  of  Bertram's  letter: 

"When  you  can  get  the  ring  from  my  finger,  which  never  shall  come  off, 
then  call  me  husband,  but  in  such  a  Then  I  write  a  Never." 

[184] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"This  is  a  dreadful  sentence!"  said  Helena. 

The  countess  begged  her  to  have  patience,  and  said,  now  Ber- 
tram was  gone,  she  should  be  her  child  and  that  she  deserved  a 
lord  that  twenty  such  rude  boys  as  Bertram  might  tend  upon, 
and  hourly  call  her  mistress.  But  in  vain  by  respectful  conde- 
scension and  kind  flattery  this  matchless  mother  tried  to  soothe 
the  sorrows  of  her  daughter-in-law. 

Helena  still  kept  her  eyes  fixed  upon  the  letter,  and  cried  out 
in  an  agony  of  grief,  "  Till  I  have  no  wife,  I  have  nothing  in  France." 

The  countess  asked  her  if  she  found  those  words  in  the  letter. 

"Yes,  madam,"  was  all  poor  Helena  could  answer. 

The  next  morning  Helena  was  missing.  She  left  a  letter  to  be 
delivered  to  the  countess  after  she  was  gone,  to  acquaint  her 
with  the  reason  of  her  sudden  absence.  In  this  letter  she  in- 
formed her  that  she  was  so  much  grieved  at  having  driven 
Bertram  from  his  native  country  and  his  home,  that  to  atone 
for  her  offense,  she  had  undertaken  a  pilgrimage  to  the  shrine 
of  St.  Jaques  le  Grand,  and  concluded  with  requesting  the  countess 
to  inform  her  son  that  the  wife  he  so  hated  had  left  his  house 
forever. 

Bertram,  when  he  left  Paris,  went  to  Florence,  and  there  be- 
came an  officer  in  the  Duke  of  Florence's  army,  and  after  a  suc- 
cessful war,  in  which  he  distinguished  himself  by  many  brave 
actions,  Bertram  received  letters  from  his  mother  containing  the 
acceptable  tidings  that  Helena  would  no  more  disturb  him; 
and  he  was  preparing  to  return  home,  when  Helena  herself,  clad 
in  her  pilgrim's  weeds,  arrived  at  the  city  of  Florence. 

Florence  was  a  city  through  which  the  pilgrims  used  to  pass 
on  their  way  to  St.  Jaques  le  Grand;  and  when  Helena  arrived 
at  this  city  she  heard  that  a  hospitable  widow  dwelt  there  who 
used  to  receive  into  her  house  the  female  pilgrims  that  were  going 
to  visit  the  shrine  of  that  saint,  giving  them  lodging  and  kind 
entertainment.  To  this  good  lady,  therefore,  Helena  went,  and 
the  widow  gave  her  a  courteous  welcome  and  invited  her  to  see 
whatever  was  curious  in  that  famous  city,  and  told  her  that  if 

[185] 


TALES    FROM 

she  would  like  to  see  the  duke's  army  she  would  take  her  where 
she  might  have  a  full  view  of  it. 

"And  you  will  see  a  countryman  of  yours,"  said  the  widow. 
"His  name  is  Count  Rousillon,  who  has  done  worthy  service  in 
the  duke's  wars."  Helena  wanted  no  second  invitation,  when 
she  found  Bertram  was  to  make  part  of  the  show.  She  accom- 
panied her  hostess;  and  a  sad  and  mournful  pleasure  it  was  to 
her  to  look  once  more  upon  her  dear  husband's  face. 

"Is  he  not  a  handsome  man?"  said  the  widow. 

"I  like  him  well,"  replied  Helena,  with  great  truth. 

All  the  way  they  walked  the  talkative  widow's  discourse  was  all 
of  Bertram.  She  told  Helena  the  story  of  Bertram's  marriage, 
and  how  he  had  deserted  the  poor  lady  his  wife  and  entered  into 
the  duke's  army  to  avoid  living  with  her.  To  this  account  of 
her  own  misfortunes  Helena  patiently  listened,  and  when  it  was 
ended  the  history  of  Bertram  was  not  yet  done,  for  then  the  widow 
began  another  tale,  every  word  of  which  sank  deep  into  the  mind 
of  Helena;  for  the  story  she  now  told  was  of  Bertram's  love  for 
her  daughter. 

Though  Bertram  did  not  like  the  marriage  forced  on  him  by  the 
king,  it  seems  he  was  not  insensible  to  love,  for  since  he  had  been 
stationed  with  the  army  at  Florence  he  had  fallen  in  love  with 
Diana,  a  fair  young  gentlewoman,  the  daughter  of  this  widow  who 
was  Helena's  hostess;  and  every  night,  with  music  of  all  sorts, 
and  songs  composed  in  praise  of  Diana's  beauty,  he  would 
come  under  her  window  and  solicit  her  love;  and  all  his  suit 
to  her  was  that  she  would  permit  him  to  visit  her  by  stealth 
after  the  family  were  retired  to  rest.  But  Diana  would  by 
no  means  be  persuaded  to  grant  this  improper  request,  nor 
give  any  encouragement  to  his  suit,  knowing  him  to  be  a  mar- 
ried man;  for  Diana  had  been  brought  up  under  the  counsels 
of  a  prudent  mother,  who,  though  she  was  now  in  reduced  cir- 
cumstances, was  well  born  and  descended  from  the  noble  family 
of  the  Capulets. 

All  this  the  good  lady  related  to  Helena,  highly  praising  the 

[186] 


SHAKESPEARE 

virtuous  principles  of  her  discreet  daughter,  which  she  said  were 
entirely  owing  to  the  excellent  education  and  good  advice  she 
had  given  her;  and  she  further  said  that  Bertram  had  been  par- 
ticularly importunate  with  Diana  to  admit  him  to  the  visit  he 
so  much  desired  that  night,  because  he  was  going  to  leave  Florence 
early  the  next  morning. 

Though  it  grieved  Helena  to  hear  of  Bertram's  love  for  the 
widow's  daughter,  yet  from  this  story  the  ardent  mind  of  Helena 
conceived  a  project  (nothing  discouraged  at  the  ill  success  of  her 
former  one)  to  recover  her  truant  lord.  She  disclosed  to  the 
widow  that  she  was  Helena,  the  deserted  wife  of  Bertram,  and 
requested  that  her  kind  hostess  and  her  daughter  would  suffer 
this  visit  from  Bertram  to  take  place,  and  allow  her  to  pass  herself 
upon  Bertram  for  Diana,  telling  them  her  chief  motive  for  desiring 
to  have  this  secret  meeting  with  her  husband  was  to  get  a  ring 
from  him,  which,  he  had  said,  if  ever  she  was  in  possession  of  he 
would  acknowledge  her  as  his  wife. 

The  widow  and  her  daughter  promised  to  assist  her  in  this 
affair,  partly  moved  by  pity  for  this  unhappy,  forsaken  wife  and 
partly  won  over  to  her  interest  by  the  promises  of  reward  which 
Helena  made  them,  giving  them  a  purse  of  money  in  earnest  of 
her  future  favor.  In  the  course  of  that  day  Helena  caused  in- 
formation to  be  sent  to  Bertram  that  she  was  dead,  hoping  that, 
when  he  thought  himself  free  to  make  a  second  choice  by  the 
news  of  her  death,  he  would  offer  marriage  to  her  in  her  feigned 
character  of  Diana.  And  if  she  could  obtain  the  ring  and  this 
promise,  too,  she  doubted  not  she  should  make  some  future  good 
come  of  it. 

In  the  evening,  after  it  was  dark,  Bertram  was  admitted  into 
Diana's  chamber,  and  Helena  was  there  ready  to  receive  him. 
The  flattering  compliments  and  love  discourse  he  addressed  to 
Helena  were  precious  sounds  to  her,  though  she  knew  they  were 
meant  for  Diana;  and  Bertram  was  so  well  pleased  with  her 
that  he  made  her  a  solemn  promise  to  be  her  husband,  and  to 
love  her  forever;   which  she  hoped  would  be  prophetic  of  a  real 

(i87  J 


TALES    FROM 


affection,  when  he  should  know  it  was  his  own  wife,  the  despised 
Helena,  whose  conversation  had  so  delighted  him. 

Bertram  never  knew  how  sensible  a  lady  Helena  was,  else  per- 
haps he  would 
not  have  been  so 
regardless  of  her; 
and  seeing  her 
every  day,  he  had 
entirely  over- 
looked her  beau- 
ty; a  face  we  are 
accustomed  to 
see  constantly 
losing  the  effect 
which  is  caused 
by  the  first  sight 
either  of  beauty 
or  of  plainness; 
and  of  her  under- 
standing it  was 
impossible  he 
should  judge,  be- 
cause she  felt 
such  reverence, 
mixed  with  her 
love  for  him,  that 
she  was  always 
silent  in  his  pres- 
ence. But  now 
that  her  future  fate,  and  the  happy  ending  of  all  her  love- 
projects,  seemed  to  depend  on  her  leaving  a  favorable  impres- 
sion on  the  mind  of  Bertram  from  this  night's  interview,  she 
exerted  all  her  wit  to  please  him;  and  the  simple  graces  of 
her  lively  conversation    and  the  endearing   sweetness  of  her 

manners  so  charmed  Bertram  that  he  vowed  she  should  be  his 

[188] 


SHAKESPEARE 

wife.  Helena  begged  the  ring  from  off  his  finger  as  a  token  of  his 
regard,  and  he  gave  it  to  her;  and  in  return  for  this  ring,  which 
it  was  of  such  importance  to  her  to  possess,  she  gave  him  another 
ring,  which  was  one  the  king  had  made  her  a  present  of.  Before 
it  was  light  in  the  morning  she  sent  Bertram  away;  and  he  im- 
mediately set  out  on  his  journey  toward  his  mother's  house. 

Helena  prevailed  on  the  widow  and  Diana  to  accompany  her  to 
Paris,  their  further  assistance  being  necessary  to  the  full  accom- 
plishment of  the  plan  she  had  formed.  When  they  arrived  there, 
they  found  the  king  was  gone  upon  a  visit  to  the  Countess  ot 
Rousillon,  and  Helena  followed  the  king  with  all  the  speed  she 
could  make. 

The  king  was  still  in  perfect  health,  and  his  gratitude  to  her 
who  had  been  the  means  of  his  recovery  was  so  lively  in  his  mind 
that  the  moment  he  saw  the  Countess  of  Rousillon  he  began  to 
talk  of  Helena,  calling  her  a  precious  jewel  that  was  lost  by  the 
folly  of  her  son;  but  seeing  the  subject  distressed  the  countess, 
who  sincerely  lamented  the  death  of  Helena,  he  said: 

"My  good  lady,  I  have  forgiven  and  forgotten  all." 

But  the  good-natured  old  Lafeu,  who  was  present,  and  could 
not  bear  that  the  memory  of  his  favorite  Helena  should  be  so 
lightly  passed  over,  said,  "This  I  must  say,  the  young  lord 
did  great  offense  to  his  Majesty,  his  mother,  and  his  lady;  but 
to  himself  he  did  the  greatest  wrong  of  all,  for  he  has  lost 
a  wife  whose  beauty  astonished  all  eyes,  whose  words  took 
all  ears  captive,  whose  deep  perfection  made  all  hearts  wish 
to  serve  her." 

The  king  said:  "Praising  what  is  lost  makes  the  remembrance 
dear.  Well — call  him  hither";  meaning  Bertram,  who  now 
presented  himself  before  the  king,  and  on  his  expressing  deep 
sorrow  for  the  injuries  he  had  done  to  Helena  the  king,  for  his 
dead  father's  and  his  admirable  mother's  sake,  pardoned  him  and 
restored  him  once  more  to  his  favor.  But  the  gracious  counte- 
nance of  the  king  was  soon  changed  toward  him,  for  he  perceived 
that  Bertram  wore  the  very  ring  upon  his  finger  which  he  had 

[189) 


TALES    FROM 

given  to  Helena;  and  he  well  remembered  that  Helena  had 
called  all  the  saints  in  heaven  to  witness  she  would  never  part 
with  that  ring  unless  she  sent  it  to  the  king  himself  upon  some 
great  disaster  befalling  her;  and  Bertram,  on  the  king's  ques- 
tioning him  how  he  came  by  the  ring,  told  an  improbable  story 
of  a  lady  throwing  it  to  him  out  of  a  window,  and  denied  ever 
having  seen  Helena  since  the  day  of  their  marriage.  The  king, 
knowing  Bertram's  dislike  to  his  wife,  feared  he  had  destroyed 
her,  and  he  ordered  his  guards  to  seize  Bertram,  saying: 

"I  am  wrapt  in  dismal  thinking,  for  I  fear  the  life  of  Helena  was 
foully  snatched." 

At  this  moment  Diana  and  her  mother  entered  and  presented  a 
petition  to  the  king,  wherein  they  begged  his  Majesty  to  exert 
his  royal  power  to  compel  Bertram  to  marry  Diana,  he  having 
made  her  a  solemn  promise  of  marriage.  Bertram,  fearing  the 
king's  anger,  denied  he  had  made  any  such  promise;  and  then 
Diana  produced  the  ring  (which  Helena  had  put  into  her  hands) 
to  confirm  the  truth  of  her  words;  and  she  said  that  she  had 
given  Bertram  the  ring  he  then  wore,  in  exchange  for  that,  at 
the  time  he  vowed  to  marry  her.  On  hearing  this  the  king  ordered 
the  guards  to  seize  her  also;  and,  her  account  of  the  ring  dif- 
fering from  Bertram's,  the  king's  suspicions  were  confirmed,  and 
he  said  if  they  did  not  confess  how  they  came  by  this  ring  of 
Helena's  they  should  be  both  put  to  death.  Diana  requested  her 
mother  might  be  permitted  to  fetch  the  jeweler  of  whom  she 
bought  the  ring,  which,  being  granted,  the  widow  went  out, 
and  presently  returned,  leading  in  Helena  herself. 

The  good  countess,  who  in  silent  grief  had  beheld  her  son's 
danger,  and  had  even  dreaded  that  the  suspicion  of  his  having 
destroyed  his  wife  might  possibly  be  true,  finding  her  dear 
Helena,  whom  she  loved  with  even  a  maternal  affection,  was  still 
living,  felt  a  delight  she  was  hardly  able  to  support;  and  the  king, 
scarce  believing  for  joy  that  it  was  Helena,  said: 

"Is  this  indeed  the  wife  of  Bertram  that  I  see?" 

Helena,  feeling  herself  yet  an  unacknowledged  wife,  replied, 

[190] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"No,  my  good  lord,  it  is  but  the  shadow  of  a  wife  you  see;  the 
name  and  not  the  thing." 

Bertram  cried  out:   "Both,  both!     Oh  pardon!" 

"O  my  lord,"  said  Helena,  "when  I  personated  this  fair  maid 
I  found  you  wondrous  kind;  and  look,  here  is  your  letter!"  read- 
ing to  him  in  a  joyful  tone  those  words  which  she  had  once  re- 
peated so  sorrowfully,  "When  from  my  finger  you  can  get  this 
ring —  This  is  done;  it  was  to  me  you  gave  the  ring.  Will  you 
be  mine,  now  you  are  doubly  won?" 

Bertram  replied,  "If  you  can  make  it  plain  that  you  were  the 
lady  I  talked  with  that  night  I  will  love  you  dearly,  ever,  ever 
dearly." 

This  was  no  difficult  task,  for  the  widow  and  Diana  came  with 
Helena  to  prove  this  fact;  and  the  king  was  so  well  pleased  with 
Diana  for  the  friendly  assistance  she  had  rendered  the  dear  lady 
he  so  truly  valued  for  the  service  she  had  done  him  that  he 
promised  her  also  a  noble  husband,  Helena's  history  giving  him  a 
hint  that  it  was  a  suitable  reward  for  kings  to  bestow  upon  fair 
ladies  when  they  perform  notable  services. 

Thus  Helena  at  last  found  that  her  father's  legacy  was  indeed 
sanctified  by  the  luckiest  stars  in  heaven;  for  she  was  now  the 
beloved  wife  of  her  dear  Bertram,  the  daughter-in-law  of  her 
noble  mistress,  and  herself  the  Countess  of  Rousilion. 


TALES    FROM 


TAMING  OF  THE   SHREW 

]PPATHARINE,  the  Shrew,  was  the  eldest 
y|j  daughter  of  Baptista,  a  rich  gentleman 
I  Mb  of  Padua.  She  was  a  lady  of  such  an 
ungovernable  spirit  and  fiery  temper, 
such  a  loud-tongued  scold,  that  she  was 
known  in  Padua  by  no  other  name  than 
Katharine  the  Shrew.  It  seemed  very 
unlikely,  indeed  impossible,  that  any 
gentleman  would  ever  be  found  who 
would  venture  to  marry  this  lady,  and  therefore  Baptista  was 
much  blamed  for  deferring  his  consent  to  many  excellent  offers 
that  were  made  to  her  gentle  sister  Bianca,  putting  ofF  all  Bianca's 
suitors  with  this  excuse,  that  when  the  eldest  sister  was.  fairly 
off  his  hands  they  should  have  free  leave  to  address  young 
Bianca. 

It  happened,  however,  that  a  gentleman,  named  Petruchio, 
came  to  Padua  purposely  to  look  out  for  a  wife,  who,  nothing 
discouraged  by  these  reports  of  Katharine's  temper,  and  hearing 
she  was  rich  and  handsome,  resolved  upon  marrying  this  famous 
termagant,  and  taming  her  into  a  meek  and  manageable  wife. 
And  truly  none  was  so  fit  to  set  about  this  herculean  labor  as 
Petruchio,  whose  spirit  was  as  high  as  Katharine's,  and  he  was  a 
witty  and  most  happy-tempered  humorist,  and  withal  so  wise,  and 
of  such  a  true  judgment,  that  he  well  knew  how  to  feign  a  pas- 
sionate and  furious  deportment  when  his  spirits  were  so  calm  that 
himself  could  have  laughed  merrily  at  his  own  angry  feigning, 
for  his  natural  temper  was  careless  and  easy;  the  boisterous  airs 
he  assumed  when  he  became  the  husband  of  Katharine  being 
but  in  sport,  or,  more  properly  speaking,  affected  by  his  excellent 

[192] 


fe 


SHAKESPEARE 

discernment,  as  the  only  means  to  overcome,  in  her  own  way,  the 
passionate  ways  of  the  furious  Katharine. 

A-courting,  then,  Petruchio  went  to  Katharine  the  Shrew; 
and  first  of  all  he  applied  to  Baptista,  her  father,  for  leave  to  woo 
his  gentle  daughter  Katharine,  as  Petruchio  called  her,  saying, 
archly,  that,  having  heard  of  her  bashful  modesty  and  mild 
behavior,  he  had  come  from 
Verona  to  solicit  her  love.  Her 
father,  though  he  wished  her 
married,  was  forced  to  confess 
Katharine  would  ill  answer 
this  character,  it  being  soon 
apparent  of  what  manner  of 
gentleness  she  was  composed, 
for  her  music-master  rushed 
into  the  room  to  complain 
that  the  gentle  Katharine,  his 
pupil,  had  broken  his  head 
with  her  lute  for  presuming  to 
find  fault  with  her  performance;  which,  when  Petruchio  heard, 
he  said: 

"It  is  a  brave  wench.  I  love  her  more  than  ever,  and  long  to 
have  some  chat  with  her."  And  hurrying  the  old  gentleman  for 
a  positive  answer,  he  said:  "My  business  is  in  haste,  Signor 
Baptista.  I  cannot  come  every  day  to  woo.  You  knew  my 
father.  He  is  dead,  and  has  left  me  heir  to  all  his  lands  and 
goods.  Then  tell  me,  if  I  get  your  daughter's  love,  what  dowry 
you  will  give  with  her." 

Baptista  thought  his  manner  was  somewhat  blunt  for  a  lover; 
but,  being  glad  to  get  Katharine  married,  he  answered  that  he 
would  give  her  twenty  thousand  crowns  for  her  dowry,  and  half 
his  estate  at  his  death.  So  this  odd  match  was  quickly  agreed  on 
and  Baptista  went  to  apprise  his  shrewish  daughter  of  her  lover's 
addresses,  and  sent  her  in  to  Petruchio  to  listen  to  his  suit. 

In  the  mean  time  Petruchio  was  settling  with  himself  the  mode 
13  [  J93  1 


TALES    FROM 

of  courtship  he  should  pursue;  and  he  said:  "I  will  woo  her 
with  some  spirit  when  she  comes.  If  she  rails  at  me,  why,  then 
I  will  tell  her  she  sings  as  sweetly  as  a  nightingale;  and  if  she 
frowns,  I  will  say  she  looks  as  clear  as  roses  newly  washed  with 
dew.  If  she  will  not  speak  a  word,  I  will  praise  the  eloquence  of 
her  language;  and  if  she  bids  me  leave  her,  I  will  give  her  thanks 
as  if  she  bid  me  stay  with  her  a  week." 

Now  the  stately  Katharine  entered,  and  Petruchio  first  ad- 
dressed her  with  : 

"Good  morrow,  Kate,  for  that  is  your  name,  I  hear." 

Katharine,  not  liking  this  plain  salutation,  said,  disdainfully, 
"They  call  me  Katharine  who  do  speak  to  me." 

"You  lie,"  replied  the  lover;  "for  you  are  called  plain  Kate, 
and  bonny  Kate,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  Shrew;  but,  Kate, 
you  are  the  prettiest  Kate  in  Christendom,  and  therefore,  Kate, 
hearing  your  mildness  praised  in  every  town,  I  am  come  to  woo 
you  for  my  wife." 

A  strange  courtship  they  made  of  it.  She  in  loud  and  angry 
terms  showing  him  how  justly  she  had  gained  the  name  of  Shrew, 
while  he  still  praised  her  sweet  and  courteous  words,  till  at  length, 
hearing  her  father  coming,  he  said  (intending  to  make  as  quick 
a  wooing  as  possible) : 

"Sweet  Katharine,  let  us  set  this  idle  chat  aside,  for  your 
father  has  consented  that  you  shall  be  my  wife,  your  dowry  is 
agreed  on,  and  whether  you  will  or  no  I  will  marry  you." 

And  now  Baptista  entering,  Petruchio  told  him  his  daughter 
had  received  him  kindly  and  that  she  had  promised  to  be  married 
the  next  Sunday.  This  Katharine  denied,  saying  she  would  rather 
see  him  hanged  on  Sunday,  and  reproached  her  father  for  wishing 
to  wed  her  to  such  a  madcap  ruffian  as  Petruchio.  Petruchio 
desired  her  father  not  to  regard  her  angry  words,  for  they  had 
agreed  she  should  seem  reluctant  before  him,  but  that  when 
they  were  alone  he  had  found  her  very  fond  and  loving;  and  he 
said  to  her*. 

"Give  me  your  hand,  Kate.    I  will  go  to  Venice  to  buy  you 

li94J 


SHAKESPEARE 

fine  apparel  against  our  wedding-day.  Provide  the  feast,  father, 
and  bid  the  wedding  guests.  I  will  be  sure  to  bring  rings,  fine 
array,  and  rich  clothes,  that  my  Katharine  may  be  fine.  And 
kiss  me,  Kate,  for  we  will  be  married  on  Sunday." 


On  the  Sunday  all  the  wedding  guests  were  assembled,  but 
they  waited  long  before  Petruchio  came,  and  Katharine  wept  for 
vexation  to  think  that  Petruchio  had  only  been  making  a  jest  of 
her.  At  last,  however,  he  appeared;  but  he  brought  none  of  the 
bridal  finery  he  had  promised  Katharine,  nor  was  he  dressed 
himself  like  a  bridegroom,  but  in  strange,  disordered  attire,  as  if 
he  meant  to  make  a  sport  of  the  serious  business  he  came  about; 
and  his  servant  and  the  very  horses  on  which  they  rode  were  in 
like  manner  in  mean  and  fantastic  fashion  habited. 

Petruchio  could  not  be  persuaded  to  change  his  dress.     He 

[i95l 


TALES    FROM 

said  Katharine  was  to  be  married  to  him,  and  not  to  his  clothes. 
And,  finding  it  was  in  vain  to  argue  with  him,  to  the  church  they 
went,  he  still  behaving  in  the  same  mad  way,  for  when  the  priest 
asked  Petruchio  if  Katharine  should  be  his  wife,  he  swore  so 
loud  that  she  should,  that,  all  amazed,  the  priest  let  fall  his 
book,  and  as  he  stooped  to  take  it  up  this  mad-brained  bride- 
groom gave  him  such  a  cuff  that  down  fell  the  priest  and  his  book 
again.  And  all  the  while  they  were  being  married  he  stamped 
and  swore  so  that  the  high-spirited  Katharine  trembled  and 
shook  with  fear.  After  the  ceremony  was  over,  while  they  were 
yet  in  the  church,  he  called  for  wine,  and  drank  a  loud  health 
to  the  company,  and  threw  a  sop  which  was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
glass  full  in  the  sexton's  face,  giving  no  other  reason  for  this 
strange  act  than  that  the  sexton's  beard  grew  thin  and  hun- 
gerly,  and  seemed  to  ask  the  sop  as  he  was  drinking.  Never 
sure  was  there  such  a  mad  marriage;  but  Petruchio  did  but  put 
this  wildness  on  the  better  to  succeed  in  the  plot  he  had  formed 
to  tame  his  shrewish  wife. 

Baptista  had  provided  a  sumptuous  marriage  feast,  but  when 
they  returned  from  church,  Petruchio,  taking  hold  of  Katharine, 
declared  his  intention  of  carrying  his  wife  home  instantly,  and 
no  remonstrance  of  his  father-in-law,  or  angry  words  of  the  en- 
raged Katharine,  could  make  him  change  his  purpose.  He 
claimed  a  husband's  right  to  dispose  of  his  wife  as  he  pleased, 
and  away  he  hurried  Katharine  off;  he  seeming  so  daring  and 
resolute  that  no  one  dared  attempt  to  stop  him. 

Petruchio  mounted  his  wife  upon  a  miserable  horse,  lean  and 
lank,  which  he  had  picked  out  for  the  purpose,  and,  himself  and 
his  servant  no  better  mounted,  they  journeyed  on  through 
rough  and  miry  ways,  and  ever  when  this  horse  of  Katharine's 
stumbled  he  would  storm  and  swear  at  the  poor  jaded  beast, 
who  could  scarce  crawl  under  his  burthen,  as  if  he  had  been  the 
most  passionate  man  alive. 

At  length,  after  a  weary  journey,  during  which  Katharine 
had  heard  nothing  but  the  wild  ravings  of  Petruchio  at  the 

[196] 


PETRUCHIO   ENTERTAINS   HIS  WIFE  AT  DINNER 


SHAKESPEARE 


servant  and  the  horses,  they  arrived  at  his  house.  Petruchio 
welcomed  her  kindly  to  her  home,  but  he  resolved  she  should 
have  neither  rest  nor  food  that  night.  The  tables  were  spread, 
and  supper  soon  served;  but  Petruchio,  pretending  to  find  fault 
with  every  dish, 

threw   the    meat  sw^  cr* 

about  the  floor,  and 
ordered  the  ser- 
vants to  remove  it 
away;  and  all  this 
he  did,  as  he  said, 
in  love  for  his 
Katharine,  that  she 
might  not  eat  meat 
that  was  not  well 
dressed.  And  when 
Katharine,  weary 
and  supperless,  re- 
tired to  rest,  he 
found  the  same 
fault  with  the  bed, 
throwing  the  pil- 
lows and  bedclothes 
about  the  room,  so 
that  she  was  forced 
to  sit  down  in  a 
chair,  where,  if  she 
chanced  to  drop 
asleep,  she  was  * 
presently  awakened 
by  the  loud  voice  of  her  husband  storming  at  the  servants  for 
the  ill-making  of  his  wife's  bridal-bed. 

The  next  day  Petruchio  pursued  the  same  course,  still  speaking 
kind  words  to  Katharine,  but,  when  she  attempted  to  eat,  finding 
fault  with   everything  that  was  set  before  her,  throwing  the 

[i99] 


TALES    FROM 

breakfast  on  the  floor  as  he  had  done  the  supper;  and  Katharine, 
the  haughty  Katharine,  was  fain  to  beg  the  servants  would 
bring  her  secretly  a  morsel  of  food;  but  they,  being  instructed  by 
Petruchio,  replied  they  dared  not  give  her  anything  unknown  to 
their  master. 

"Ah,"  said  she,  "did  he  marry  me  to  famish  me?  Beggars 
that  come  to  my  father's  door  have  food  given  them.  But  I, 
who  never  knew  what  it  was  to  entreat  for  anything,  am  starved 
for  want  of  food,  giddy  for  want  of  sleep,  with  oaths  kept  waking, 
and  with  brawling  fed;  and  that  which  vexes  me  more  than  all, 
he  does  it  under  the  name  of  perfect  love,  pretending  that  if  I 
sleep  or  eat,  it  were  present  death  to  me." 

Here  the  soliloquy  was  interrupted  by  the  entrance  of  Petruchio. 
He,  not  meaning  she  should  be  quite  starved,  had  brought  her  a 
small  portion  of  meat,  and  he  said  to  her: 

"How  fares  my  sweet  Kate?  Here,  love,  you  see  how  diligent 
I  am.  I  have  dressed  your  meat  myself.  I  am  sure  this  kindness 
merits  thanks.  What,  not  a  word?  Nay,  then  you  love  not  the 
meat,  and  all  the  pains  I  have  taken  is  to  no  purpose."  He  then 
ordered  the  servant  to  take  the  dish  away. 

Extreme  hunger,  which  had  abated  the  pride  of  Katharine, 
made  her  say,  though  angered  to  the  heart,  "I  pray  you  let  it 
stand." 

But  this  was  not  all  Petruchio  intended  to  bring  her  to,  and  he 
replied,  "The  poorest  service  is  repaid  with  thanks,  and  so  shall 
mine  before  you  touch  the  meat." 

On  this  Katharine  brought  out  a  reluctant  "I  thank  you,  sir." 

And  now  he  suffered  her  to  make  a  slender  meal,  saying: 
"Much  good  may  it  do  your  gentle  heart,  Kate.  Eat  apace! 
And  now,  my  honey  love,  we  will  return  to  your  father's  house 
and  revel  it  as  bravely  as  the  best,  with  silken  coats  and  caps  and 
golden  rings,  with  rufTs  and  scarfs  and  fans  and  double  change  of 
finery."  And  to  make  her  believe  he  really  intended  to  give  her 
these  gay  things,  he  called  in  a  tailor  and  a  haberdasher,  who 
brought  some  new  clothes  he  had  ordered  for  her,  and  then,  giving 

[200] 


SHAKESPEARE 

her  plate  to  the  servant  to  take  away,  before  she  had  half  satisfied 
her  hunger,  he  said: 

"What,  have  you  dined?" 

The  haberdasher  presented  a  cap,  saying,  "Here  is  the  cap 
your  worship  bespoke."  On  which  Petruchio  began  to  storm 
afresh,  saying  the  cap  was  molded  in  a  porringer  and  that  it 
was  no  bigger  than  a  cockle  or  walnut  shell,  desiring  the  haber- 
dasher to  take  it  away  and  make  it  bigger. 

Katharine  said,  "I  will  have  this;  all  gentlewomen  wear  such 
caps  as  these." 

"When  you  are  gentle,"  replied  Petruchio,  "you  shall  have  one, 
too,  and  not  till  then." 

The  meat  Katharine  had  eaten  had  a  little  revived  her  fallen 
spirits,  and  she  said:  "Why,  sir,  I  trust  I  may  have  leave  to 
speak,  and  speak  I  will.  I  am  no  child,  no  babe.  Your  betters 
have  endured  to  hear  me  say  my  mind;  and  if  you  cannot,  you 
had  better  stop  your  ears." 

Petruchio  would  not  hear  these  angry  words,  for  he  had  happily 
discovered  a  better  way  of  managing  his  wife  than  keeping  up  a 
jangling  argument  with  her;  therefore  his  answer  was: 

"Why,  you  say  true;  it  is  a  paltry  cap,  and  I  love  you  for  not 
liking  it." 

"Love  me,  or  love  me  not,"  said  Katharine,  "I  like  the  cap, 
and  I  will  have  this  cap  or  none." 

"You  say  you  wish  to  see  the  gown,"  said  Petruchio,  still 
affecting  to  misunderstand  her. 

The  tailor  then  came  forward  and  showed  her  a  fine  gown  he 
had  made  for  her.  Petruchio,  whose  intent  was  that  she  should 
have  neither  cap  nor  gown,  found  as  much  fault  with  that. 

"Oh,  mercy,  Heaven!"  said  he,  "what  stuff" is  here!  What,  do 
you  call  this  a  sleeve?  it  is  like  a  demi-cannon,  carved  up  and 
down  like  an  apple  tart." 

The  tailor  said,  "You  bid  me  make  it  according  to  the  fashion 
of  the  times";  and  Katharine  said  she  never  saw  a  better- 
fashioned  gown.     This  was  enough  for  Petruchio,  and  privately 

[201 J 


TALES    FR  OM 

desiring  these  people  might  be  paid  for  their  goods,  and  excuses 
made  to  them  for  the  seemingly  strange  treatment  he  bestowed 
upon  them,  he  with  fierce  words  and  furious  gestures  drove  the 
tailor  and  the  haberdasher  out  of  the  room;  and  then,  turning 
to  Katharine,  he  said: 

"Well,  come,  my  Kate,  we  will  go  to  your  father's  even  in 
these  mean  garments  we  now  wear." 

And  then  he  ordered  his  horses,  affirming  they  should  reach 
Baptista's  house  by  dinner-time,  for  that  it  was  but  seven  o'clock. 
Now  it  was  not  early  morning,  but  the  very  middle  of  the  day, 
when  he  spoke  this;  therefore  Katharine  ventured  to  say,  though 
modestly,  being  almost  overcome  by  the  vehemence  of  his 
manner: 

"I  dare  assure  you,  sir,  it  is  two  o'clock,  and  will  be  supper- 
time  before  we  get  there." 

But  Petruchio  meant  that  she  should  be  so  completely  subdued 
that  she  should  assent  to  everything  he  said  before  he  carried  her 
to  her  father;  and  therefore,  as  if  he  were  lord  even  of  the  sun 
and  could  command  the  hours,  he  said  it.  should  be  what  time  he 
pleased  to  have  it,  before  he  set  forward.  "For,"  he  said,  "what- 
ever I  say  or  do,  you  still  are  crossing  it.  I  will  not  go  to-day,  and 
when  I  go,  it  shall  be  what  o'clock  I  say  it  is." 

Another  day  Katharine  was  forced  to  practise  her  newly  found 
obedience,  and  not  till  he  had  brought  her  proud  spirit  to  such  a 
perfect  subjection  that  she  dared  not  remember  there  was  such  a 
word  as  contradiction  would  Petruchio  allow  her  to  go  to  her 
father's  house;  and  even  while  they  were  upon  their  journey 
thither  she  was  in  danger  of  being  turned  back  again,  only 
because  she  happened  to  hint  it  was  the  sun  when  he  affirmed 
the  moon  shone  brightly  at  noonday. 

"Now,  by  my  mother's  son,"  said  he,  "and  that  is  myself, 
it  shall  be  the  moon,  or  stars,  or  what  I  list,  before  I  journey 
to  your  father's  house."  He  then  made  as  if  he  were  going  back 
again.  But  Katharine,  no  longer  Katharine  the  Shrew,  but  the 
obedient  wife,  said,  "Let  us  go  forward,  I  pray,  now  we  have 

[202] 


SHAKESPEARE 

come  so  far,  and  it  shall  be  the  sun,  or  moon,  or  what  you  please; 
and  if  you  please  to  call  it  a  rush  candle  henceforth,  I  vow  it 
shall  be  so  for  me." 

This  he  was  resolved  to  prove,  therefore  he  said  again,  "I  say 
it  is  the  moon." 

"I  know  it  is  the  moon,"  replied  Katharine. 

"You  lie.     It  is  the  blessed  sun,"  said  Petruchio. 

"Then  it  is  the  blessed  sun,"  replied  Katharine;  "but  sun  it  is 
not  when  you  say  it  is  not.  What  you  will  have  it  named,  even 
so  it  is,  and  so  it  ever  shall  be  for  Katharine." 

Now  then  he  suffered  her  to  proceed  on  her  journey;  but 
further  to  try  if  this  yielding  humor  would  last,  he  addressed  an 
old  gentleman  they  met  on  the  road  as  if  he  had  been  a  young 
woman,  saying  to  him,  "Good  morrow,  gentle  mistress";  and 
asked  Katharine  if  she  had  ever  beheld  a  fairer  gentlewoman, 
praising  the  red  and  white  of  the  old  man's  cheeks,  and  comparing 
his  eyes  to  two  bright  stars;  and  again  he  addressed  him,  saying, 
"Fair,  lovely  maid,  once  more  good  day  to  you!"  and  said  to  his 
wife,  "Sweet  Kate,  embrace  her  for  her  beauty's  sake." 

The  now  completely  vanquished  Katharine  quickly  adopted 
her  husband's  opinion,  and  made  her  speech  in  like  sort  to  the 
old  gentleman,  saying  to  him:  "Young  budding  virgin,  you  are 
fair  and  fresh  and  sweet.  Whither  are  you  going,  and  where  is 
your  dwelling?     Happy  are  the  parents  of  so  fair  a  child." 

"Why,  how  now,  Kate,"  said  Petruchio.  "I  hope  you  are 
not  mad.  This  is  a  man,  old  and  wrinkled,  faded  and  withered, 
and  not  a  maiden,  as  you  say  he  is." 

On  this  Katharine  said,  "Pardon  me,  old  gentleman;  the  sun 
has  so  dazzled  my  eyes  that  everything  I  look  on  seemeth  green. 
Now  I  perceive  you  are  a  reverend  father.  I  hope  you  will  pardon 
me  for  my  sad  mistake." 

"Do,  good  old  grandsire,"  said  Petruchio,  "and  tell  us  which 

way  you  are  traveling.     We  shall  be  glad  of  your  good  company, 

if  you  are  going  our  way." 

The  old  gentleman  replied :  "  Fair  sir,  andTyou,  my  merry  mis- 

( 203  ] 


TALES    FROM 

tress,  your  strange  encounter  has  much  amazed  me.  My  name  is 
Vincentio,  and  I  am  going  to  visit  a  son  of  mine  who  lives  at 
Padua." 

Then  Petruchio  knew  the  old  gentleman  to  be  the  father  of 
Lucentio,  a  young  gentleman  who  was  to  be  married  to  Baptista's 
younger  daughter,  Bianca,  and  he  made  Vincentio  very  happy 
by  telling  him  the  rich  marriage  his  son  was  about  to  make;  and 
they  all  journeyed  on  pleasantly  together  till  they  came  to 
Baptista's  house,  where  there  was  a  large  company  assembled 
to  celebrate  the  wedding  of  Bianca  and  Lucentio,  Baptista  having 
willingly  consented  to  the  marriage  of  Bianca  when  he  had  got 
Katharine  off  his  hands. 

When  they  entered,  Baptista  welcomed  them  to  the  wedding 
feast,  and  there  was  present  also  another  newly  married  pair. 

Lucentio,  Bianca's  husband,  and  Hortensio,  the  other  new- 
married  man,  could  not  forbear  sly  jests,  which  seemed  to  hint  at 
the  shrewish  disposition  of  Petruchio's  wife,  and  these  fond  bride- 
grooms seemed  highly  pleased  with  the  mild  tempers  of  the  ladies 
they  had  chosen,  laughing  at  Petruchio  for  his  less  fortunate 
choice.  Petruchio  took  little  notice  of  their  jokes  till  the  ladies 
were  retired  after  dinner,  and  then  he  perceived  Baptista  himself 
joined  in  the  laugh  against  him,  for  when  Petruchio  affirmed  that 
his  wife  would  prove  more  obedient  than  theirs,  the  father  of 
Katharine  said,  "Now,  in  good  sadness,  son  Petruchio,  I  fear 
you  have  got  the  veriest  shrew  of  all." 

"Well,"  said  Petruchio,  "I  say  no,  and  therefore,  for  assurance 
that  I  speak  the  truth,  let  us  each  one  send  for  his  wife,  and  he 
whose  wife  is  most  obedient  to  come  at  first  when  she  is  sent  for 
shall  win  a  wager  which  we  will  propose." 

To  this  the  other  two  husbands  willingly  consented,  for  they 
were  confident  that  their  gentle  wives  would  prove  more  obedient 
than  the  headstrong  Katharine,  and  they  proposed  a  wager  of 
twenty  crowns.  But  Petruchio  merrily  said  he  would  lay  as 
much  as  that  upon  his  hawk  or  hound,  but  twenty  times  as  much 
upon  his  wife.     Lucentio  and  Hortensio  raised  the  wager  to  a 

[204] 


SHAKESPEARE 

hundred  crowns,  and  Lucentio  first  sent  his  servant  to  desire 
Bianca  would  come  to  him.     But  the  servant  returned,  and  said: 

"Sir,  my  mistress  sends  you  word  she  is  busy  and  cannot  come." 

"How,"  said  Petruchio,  "does  she  say  she  is  busy  and  cannot 
come?     Is  that  an  answer  for  a  wife?" 

Then  they  laughed  at  him,  and  said  it  would  be  well  if  Katharine 
did  not  send  him  a  worse  answer.  And  now  it  was  Hortensio's 
turn  to  send  for  his  wife;  and  he  said  to  his  servant,  "Go,  and 
entreat  my  wife  to  come  to  me." 

"Oh  ho!   entreat  her!"  said  Petruchio. 

"Nay,  then,  she  needs  must  come." 

"I  am  afraid,  sir,"  said  Hortensio,  "your  wife  will  not  be 
entreated."  But  presently  this  civil  husband  looked  a  little 
blank  when  the  servant  returned  without  his  mistress;  and  he  said 
to  him: 

"How  now?     Where  is  my  wife?" 

"Sir,"  said  the  servant,  "my  mistress  says  you  have  some 
goodly  jest  in  hand,  and  therefore  she  will  not  come.  She  bids 
you  come  to  her." 

"Worse  and  worse!"  said  Petruchio.  And  then  he  sent  his 
servant,  saying,  "Sirrah,  go  to  your  mistress  and  tell  her  I 
command  her  to  come  to  me." 

The  company  had  scarcely  time  to  think  she  would  not  obey 
this  summons  when  Baptista,  all  in  amaze,  exclaimed: 

"Now,  by  my  holidame,  here  comes  Katharine!" 

And  she  entered,  saying  meekly  to  Petruchio,  "What  is  your 
will,  sir,  that  you  send  for  me?" 

"Where  is  your  sister  and  Hortensio's  wife?"  said  he. 

Katharine  replied,  "They  sit  conferring  by  the  parlor  fire." 

"Go,  fetch  them  hither!"  said  Petruchio. 

Away  went  Katharine  without  reply  to  perform  her  husband's 
command. 

"Here  is  a  wonder,"  said  Lucentio,  "if  you  talk  of  a  wonder." 

"And  so  it  is,"  said  Hortensio.     "I  marvel  what  it  bodes." 

"Marry,  peace  it  bodes,"  said  Petruchio,  "and  love,  and  quiet 

[205] 


TALES    FROM 

life,  and  right  supremacy;  and,  to  be  short,  everything  that  is 
sweet  and  happy." 

Katharine's  father,  overjoyed  to  see  this  reformation  in  his 
daughter,  said:  "Now,  fair  befall  thee,  son  Petruchio!  You  have 
won  the  wager,  and  I  will  add  another  twenty  thousand  crowns 
to  her  dowry,  as  if  she  were  another  daughter,  for  she  is  changed 
as  if  she  had  never  been." 

"Nay,"  said  Petruchio,  "I  will  win  the  wager  better  yet,  and 
show  more  signs  of  her  new-built  virtue  and  obedience."  Kath- 
arine now  entering  with  the  two  ladies,  he  continued:  "See 
where  she  comes,  and  brings  your  froward  wives  as  prisoners  to 
her  womanly  persuasion.  Katharine,  that  cap  of  yours  does  not 
become  you;   off  with  that  bauble,  and  throw  it  underfoot." 

Katharine  instantly  took  off  her  cap  and  threw  it  down. 

"Lord!"  said  Hortensio's  wife,  "may  I  never  have  a  cause  to 
sigh  till  I  am  brought  to  such  a  silly  pass!" 

And  Bianca,  she,  too,  said,  "Fie!  what  foolish  duty  call  you 
this?" 

On  this  Bianca's  husband  said  to  her,  "I  wish  your  duty  were 
as  foolish,  too!  The  wisdom  of  your  duty,  fair  Bianca,  has  cost 
me  a  hundred  crowns  since  dinner-time." 

"The  more  fool  you,"  said  Bianca,  "for  laying  on  my  duty." 

"Katharine,"  said  Petruchio,  "I  charge  you  tell  these  head- 
strong women  what  duty  they  owe  their  lords  and  husbands." 

And  to  the  wonder  of  all  present,  the  reformed  shrewish  lady 
spoke  as  eloquently  in  praise  of  the  wifelike  duty  of  obedience 
as  she  had  practised  it  implicitly  in  a  ready  submission  to  Pe- 
truchio's  will.  And  Katharine  once  more  became  famous  in 
Padua,  not  as  heretofore  as  Katharine  the  Shrew,  but  as  Kath- 
arine the  most  obedient  and  duteous  wife  in  Padua. 


SHAKESPEARE 


THE   COMEDY   OF    ERRORS 


^•-^HE  states  of  Syracuse  and  Ephesus  being 
at  variance,  there  was  a  cruel  law  made 
at  Ephesus,  ordaining  that  if  any  mer- 
chant of  Syracuse  was  seen  in  the  city 
of  Ephesus  he  was  to  be  put  to  death, 
unless  he  could  pay  a  thousand  marks 
for  the  ransom  of  his  life. 

iEgeon,  an  old  merchant  of  Syracuse, 
was  discovered  in  the  streets  of  Ephesus, 
and  brought  before  the  duke,  either  to  pay  this  heavy  fine  or 
to  receive  sentence  of  death. 

iEgeon  had  no  money  to  pay  the  fine,  and  the  duke,  before  he 
pronounced  the  sentence  of  death  upon  him,  desired  him  to  relate 
the  history  of  his  life,  and  to  tell  for  what  cause  he  had  ventured 
to  come  to  the  city  of  Ephesus,  which  it  was  death  for  any 
Syracusan  merchant  to  enter. 

iEgeon  said  that  he  did  not  fear  to  die,  for  sorrow  had  made 
him  weary  of  his  life,  but  that  a  heavier  task  could  not  have 
been  imposed  upon  him  than  to  relate  the  events  of  his  unfortu- 
nate life.  He  then  began  his  own  history,  in  the  following  words: 
"I  was  born  at  Syracuse,  and  brought  up  to  the  profession 
of  a  merchant.  I  married  a  lady,  with  whom  I  lived  very 
happily,  but,  being  obliged  to  go  to  Epidamnum,  I  was  detained 
there  by  my  business  six  months,  and  then,  finding  I  should  be 
obliged  to  stay  some  time  longer,  I  sent  for  my  wife,  who,  as  soon 
as  she  arrived,  was  brought  to  bed  of  two  sons,  and  what  was  very 
strange,  they  were  both  so  exactly  alike  that  it  was  impossible 
to  distinguish  the  one  from  the  other.  At  the  same  time  that  my 
wife  was  brought  to  bed  of  these  twin  boys  a  poor  woman  in  the 

[207] 


TA  LE  S    FROM 

inn  where  my  wife  lodged  was  brought  to  bed  of  two  sons,  and 
these  twins  were  as  much  like  each  other  as  my  two  sons  were. 
The  parents  of  these  children  being  exceeding  poor,  I  bought  the 
two  boys  and  brought  them  up  to  attend  upon  my  sons. 

"My  sons  were  very  fine  children,  and  my  wife  was  not  a  little 
proud  of  two  such  boys;  and  she  daily  wishing  to  return  home, 
I  unwillingly  agreed,  and  in  an  evil  hour  we  got  on  shipboard,  for 
we  had  not  sailed  above  a  league  from  Epidamnum  before  a 
dreadful  storm  arose,  which  continued  with  such  violence  that 
the  sailors,  seeing  no  chance  of  saving  the  ship,  crowded  into  the 
boat  to  save  their  own  lives,  leaving  us  alone  in  the  ship,  which 
we  every  moment  expected  would  be  destroyed  by  the  fury  of 
the  storm. 

"The  incessant  weeping  of  my  wife  and  the  piteous  complaints 
of  the  pretty  babes,  who,  not  knowing  what  to  fear,  wept  for 
fashion,  because  they  saw  their  mother  weep,  filled  me  with 
terror  for  them,  though  I  did  not  for  myself  fear  death;  and 
all  my  thoughts  were  bent  to  contrive  means  for  their  safety. 
I  tied  my  youngest  son  to  the  end  of  a  small  spare  mast,  such  as 
seafaring  men  provide  against  storms;  at  the  other  end  I  bound 
the  youngest  of  the  twin  slaves,  and  at  the  same  time  I  directed 
my  wife  how  to  fasten  the  other  children  in  like  manner  to 
another  mast.  She  thus  having  the  care  of  the  eldest  two 
children,  and  I  of  the  younger  two,  we  bound  ourselves  separately 
to  these  masts  with  the  children;  and  but  for  this  contrivance  we 
had  all  been  lost,  for  the  ship  split  on  a  mighty  rock  and  was 
dashed  in  pieces;  and  we,  clinging  to  these  slender  masts,  were 
supported  above  the  water,  where  I,  having  the  care  of  two 
children,  was  unable  to  assist  my  wife,  who,  with  the  other 
children,  was  soon  separated  from  me;  but  while  they  were  yet  in 
my  sight  they  were  taken  up  by  a  boat  of  fishermen,  from  Corinth 
(as  I  supposed),  and,  seeing  them  in  safety,  I  had  no  care  but  to 
struggle  with  the  wild  sea-waves,  to  preserve  my  dear  son  and 
the  youngest  slave.  At  length  we,  in  our  turn,  were  taken  up  by 
a  ship,  and  the  sailors,  knowing  me,  gave  us  kind  welcome  and 

[208] 


14 


THE   SHIP  SPLIT  ON  A  MIGHTY  ROCK 


SHAKESPEARE 

assistance  and  landed  us  in  safety  at  Syracuse;  but  from  that 
sad  hour  I  have  never  known  what  became  of  my  wife  and 
eldest  child. 

"My  youngest  son,  and  now  my  only  care,  when  he  was 
eighteen  years  of  age,  began  to  be  inquisitive  after  his  mother 
and  his  brother,  and  often  importuned  me  that  he  might  take  his 
attendant,  the  young  slave,  who  had  also  lost  his  brother,  and 
go  in  search  of  them.  At  length  I  unwillingly  gave  consent,  for, 
though  I  anxiously  desired  to  hear  tidings  of  my  wife  and  eldest 
son,  yet  in  sending  my  younger  one  to  find  them  I  hazarded  the 
loss  of  him  also.  It  is  now  seven  years  since  my  son  left  me; 
five  years  have  I  passed  in  traveling  through  the  world  in  search 
of  him.  I  have  been  in  farthest  Greece,  and  through  the  bounds 
of  Asia,  and,  coasting  homeward,  I  landed  here  in  Ephesus,  being 
unwilling  to  leave  any  place  unsought  that  harbors  men;  but  this 
day  must  end  the  story  of  my  life,  and  happy  should  I  think  my- 
self in  my  death  if  I  were  assured  my  wife  and  sons  were  living." 

Here  the  hapless  iEgeon  ended  the  account  of  his  misfortunes; 
and  the  duke,  pitying  this  unfortunate  father  who  had  brought 
upon  himself  this  great  peril  by  his  love  for  his  lost  son,  said 
if  it  were  not  against  the  laws,  which  his  oath  and  dignity  did  not 
permit  him  to  alter,  he  would  freely  pardon  him;  yet,  instead 
of  dooming  him  to  instant  death,  as  the  strict  letter  of  the  law 
required,  he  would  give  him  that  day  to  try  if  he  could  beg  or 
borrow  the  money  to  pay  the  fine. 

This  day  of  grace  did  seem  no  great  favor  to  .ZEgeon,  for, 
not  knowing  any  man  in  Ephesus,  there  seemed  to  him  but  little 
chance  that  any  stranger  would  lend  or  give  him  a  thousand 
marks  to  pay  the  fine;  and,  helpless  and  hopeless  of  any  relief, 
he  retired  from  the  oresence  of  the  duke  in  the  custody  of  a 
jailer. 

iEgeon  supposed  he  knew  no  person  in  Ephesus;  but  at  the 
very  time  he  was  in  danger  of  losing  his  life  through  the  careful 
search  he  was  making  after  his  youngest  son  that  son,  and  his 
eldest  son  also,  were  in  the  city  of  Ephesus- 

(.211 1 


TALES    FROM 

iEgeon's  sons,  besides  being  exactly  alike  in  face  and  person, 
were  both  named  alike,  being  both  called  Antipholus,  and  the 
two  twin  slaves  were  also  both  named  Dromio.  iEgeon's 
youngest  son,  Antipholus  of  Syracuse,  he  whom  the  old  man  had 
come  to  Ephesus  to  seek,  happened  to  arrive  at  Ephesus  with  his 
slave  Dromio  that  very  same  day  that  JEgeon  did;  and  he  being 
also  a  merchant  of  Syracuse,  he  would  have  been  in  the  same 
danger  that  his  father  was,  but  by  good  fortune  he  met  a  friend 
who  told  him  the  peril  an  old  merchant  of  Syracuse  was  in, 
and  advised  him  to  pass  for  a  merchant  of  Epidamnum.  This 
Antipholus  agreed  to  do,  and  he  was  sorry  to  hear  one  of  his  own 
countrymen  was  in  this  danger,  but  he  little  thought  this  old 
merchant  was  his  own  father. 

The  eldest  son  of  iEgeon  (who  must  be  called  Antipholus 
of  Ephesus,  to  distinguish  him  from  his  brother  Antipholus  of 
Syracuse)  had  lived  at  Ephesus  twenty  years,  and,  being  a  rich 
man,  was  well  able  to  have  paid  the  money  for  the  ransom  of  his 
father's  life;  but  Antipholus  knew  nothing  of  his  father,  being  so 
young  when  he  was  taken  out  of  the  sea  with  his  mother  by  the 
fishermen  that  he  only  remembered  he  had  been  so  preserved; 
but  he  had  no  recollection  of  either  his  father  or  his  mother,  the 
fishermen  who  took  up  this  Antipholus  and  his  mother  and  the 
young  slave  Dromio  having  carried  the  two  children  away  from  her 
(to  the  great  grief  of  that  unhappy  lady),  intending  to  sell  them. 

Antipholus  and  Dromio  were  sold  by  them  to  Duke  Menaphon, 
a  famous  warrior,  who  was  uncle  to  the  Duke  of  Ephesus,  and  he 
carried  the  boys  to  Ephesus  when  he  went  to  visit  the  duke,  his 
nephew. 

The  Duke  of  Ephesus,  taking  a  liking  to  young  Antipholus, 
when  he  grew  up  made  him  an  officer  in  his  army,  in  which  he 
distinguished  himself  by  his  great  bravery  in  the  wars,  where 
he  saved  the  life  of  his  patron,  the  duke,  who  rewarded  his  merit 
by  marrying  him  to  Adriana,  a  rich  lady  of  Ephesus,  with  whom 
he  was  living  (his  slave  Dromio  still  attending  him)  at  the  time 
his  father  came  there. 

[212] 


SHAKESPEARE 


Antipholus  of  Syracuse,  when  he  parted  with  his  friend,  who 
advised  him  to  say  he  came  from  Epidamnum,  gave  his  slave 
Dromio  some  money  to  carry  to  the  inn  where  he  intended  to  dine, 
and  in  the  mean  time  he  said  he  would  walk  about  and  view 
the  city  and  ob- 
serve the  manners 
of  the  people. 

Dromio  was  a 
pleasant  fellow, 
and  when  An- 
tipholus was  dull 
and  melancholy 
he  used  to  divert 
himself  with  the 
odd  humors  and 
merry  jests  of  his 
slave,  so  that  the 
freedoms  of 
speech  he  allowed 
in  Dromio  were 
greater  than  is 
usual  between 
masters  and  their 
servants. 

When  Antiph- 
olus of  Syracuse 
had  sent  Dromio 
away,  he  stood 
awhile  thinking 
over  his  solitary 
wanderings  in  search  of  his  mother  and  his  brother,  of  whom  in  no 
place  where  he  landed  could  he  hear  the  least  tidings;  and  he  said 
sorrowfully  to  himself,  "I  am  like  a  drop  of  water  in  the  ocean, 
which,  seeking  to  find  its  fellow  drop,  loses  itself  in  the  wide  sea, 
So  I,  unhappily,  to  find  a  mother  and  a  brother,  do  lose  myself/* 

[213] 


TALES    FROM 

While  he  was  thus  meditating  on  his  weary  travels,  which  had 
hitherto  been  so  useless,  Dromio  (as  he  thought)  returned. 
Antipholus,  wondering  that  he  came  back  so  soon,  asked  him 
where  he  had  left  the  money.  Now  it  was  not  his  own  Dromio, 
but  the  twin-brother  that  lived  with  Antipholus  of  Ephesus, 
that  he  spoke  to.  The  two  Dromios  and  the  two  Antipholuses 
were  still  as  much  alike  as  iEgeon  had  said  they  were  in  their 
infancy;  therefore  no  wonder  Antipholus  thought  it  was  his 
own  slave  returned,  and  asked  him  why  he  came  back  so  soon. 

Dromio  replied:  "My  mistress  sent  me  to  bid  you  come  to 
dinner.  The  capon  burns,  and  the  pig  falls  from  the  spit,  and  the 
meat  will  be  all  cold  if  you  do  not  come  home." 

"These  jests  are  out  of  season,"  said  Antipholus.  "Where  did 
you  leave  the  money?" 

Dromio  still  answering  that  his  mistress  had  sent  him  to  fetch 
Antipholus  to  dinner,  "What  mistress?"  said  Antipholus. 

"Why,  your  worship's  wife,  sir!"  replied  Dromio. 

Antipholus  having  no  wife,  he  was  very  angry  with  Dromio, 
and  said:  "Because  I  familiarly  sometimes  chat  with  you,  you 
presume  to  jest  with  me  in  this  free  manner.  I  am  not  in  a 
sportive  humor  now.  Where  is  the  money?  We  being  stran- 
gers here,  how  dare  you  trust  so  great  a  charge  from  your  own 
custody?" 

Dromio,  hearing  his  master,  as  he  thought  him,  talk  of  their 
being  strangers,  supposing  Antipholus  was  jesting,  replied, 
merrily:  "I  pray  you,  sir,  jest  as  you  sit  at  dinner.  I  had  no 
charge  but  to  fetch  you  home  to  dine  with  my  mistress  and  her 
sister." 

Now  Antipholus  lost  all  patience,  and  beat  Dromio,  who  ran 
home  and  told  his  mistress  that  his  master  had  refused  to  come 
to  dinner  and  said  that  he  had  no  wife. 

Adriana,  the  wife  of  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  was  very  angry 
when  she  heard  that  her  husband  said  he  had  no  wife;  for  she 
was  of  a  jealous  temper,  and  she  said  her  husband  meant  that  he 
loved  another  lady  better  than  herself;    and  she  began  to  fret, 

[214] 


/' 


i?  v-«/'   'S-cv- 


14 


"PLEAD   YOU  TO  ME,   FAIR   DAME?" 


SHAKESPEARE 

and  say  unkind  words  of  jealousy  and  reproach  of  her  husband; 
and  her  sister  Luciana,  who  lived  with  her,  tried  in  vain  to 
persuade  her  out  of  her  groundless  suspicions. 

Antipholus  of  Syracuse  went  to  the  inn,  and  found  Dromio 
with  the  money  in  safety  there,  and,  seeing  his  own  Dromio, 
he  was  going  again  to  chide  him  for  his  free  jests,  when  Adriana 
came  up  to  him,  and,  not  doubting  but  it  was  her  husband  she 
saw,  she  began  to  reproach  him  for  looking  strange  upon  her 
(as  well  he  might,  never  having  seen  this  angry  lady  before); 
and  then  she  told  him  how  well  he  loved  her  before  they  were 
married,  and  that  now  he  loved  some  other  lady  instead  of  her. 

"How  comes  it  now,  my  husband,"  said  she,  "oh,  how  comes 
it  that  I  have  lost  your  love?" 

"Plead  you  to  me,  fair  dame?"  said  the  astonished  Antipholus. 

It  was  in  vain  he  told  her  he  was  not  her  husband  and  that  he 
had  been  in  Ephesus  but  two  hours.  She  insisted  on  his  going 
home  with  her,  and  Antipholus  at  last,  being  unable  to  get  away, 
went  with  her  to  his  brother's  house,  and  dined  with  Adriana 
and  her  sister,  the  one  calling  him  husband  and  the  other  brother, 
he,  all  amazed,  thinking  he  must  have  been  married  to  her  in 
his  sleep,  or  that  he  was  sleeping  now.  And  Dromio,  who  fol- 
lowed them,  was  no  less  surprised,  for  the  cook-maid,  who  was 
his  brother's  wife,  also  claimed  him  for  her  husband. 

While  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  was  dining  with  his  brother's 
wife,  his  brother,  the  real  husband,  returned  home  to  dinner 
with  his  slave  Dromio;  but  the  servants  would  not  open  the  door, 
because  their  mistress  had  ordered  them  not  to  admit  any  com- 
pany; and  when  they  repeatedly  knocked,  and  said  they  were 
Antipholus  and  Dromio,  the  maids  laughed  at  them,  and  said 
that  Antipholus  was  at  dinner  with  their  mistress,  and  Dromio 
was  in  the  kitchen;  and  though  they  almost  knocked  the  door 
down,  they  could  not  gain  admittance,  and  at  last  Antipholus 
went  away  very  angry,  and  strangely  surprised  at  hearing  a 
gentleman  was  dining  with  his  wife. 

When  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  had  finished  his  dinner,  he  was 

[217I 


TALES    FROM 

so  perplexed  at  the  lady's  still  persisting  in  calling  him  husband, 
and  at  hearing  that  Dromio  had  also  been  claimed  by  the  cook- 
maid,  that  he  left  the  house  as  soon  as  he  could  find  any  pretense 
to  get  away;  for  though  he  was  very  much  pleased  with  Luciana, 
the  sister,  yet  the  jealous-tempered  Adriana  he  disliked  very 
much,  nor  was  Dromio  at  all  better  satisfied  with  his  fair  wife 
in  the  kitchen;  therefore  both  master  and  man  were  glad  to 
get  away  from  their  new  wives  as  fast  as  they  could. 

The  moment  Antipholus  of  Syracuse  had  left  the  house  he  was 
met  by  a  goldsmith,  who,  mistaking  him,  as  Adriana  had  done, 
for  Antipholus  of  Ephesus,  gave  him  a  gold  chain,  calling  him 
by  his  name;  and  when  Antipholus  would  have  refused  the  chain, 
saying  it  did  not  belong  to  him,  the  goldsmith  replied  he  made  it 
by  his  own  orders,  and  went  away,  leaving  the  chain  in  the  hands 
of  Antipholus,  who  ordered  his  man  Dromio  to  get  his  things  on 
board  a  ship,  not  choosing  to  stay  in  a  place  any  longer  where  he 
met  with  such  strange  adventures  that  he  surely  thought  himself 
bewitched. 

The  goldsmith  who  had  given  the  chain  to  the  wrong  Antipholus 
was  arrested  immediately  after  for  a  sum  of  money  he  owed; 
and  Antipholus,  the  married  brother,  to  whom  the  goldsmith 
thought  he  had  given  the  chain,  happened  to  come  to  the  place 
where  the  officer  was  arresting  the  goldsmith,  who,  when  he 
saw  Antipholus,  asked  him  to  pay  for  the  gold  chain  he  had 
just  delivered  to  him,  the  price  amounting  to  nearly  the  same 
sum  as  that  for  which  he  had  been  arrested.  Antipholus  denying 
the  having  received  the  chain,  and  the  goldsmith  persisting  to 
declare  that  he  had  but  a  few  minutes  before  given  it  to  him, 
they  disputed  this  matter  a  long  time,  both  thinking  they  were 
right;  for  Antipholus  knew  the  goldsmith  never  gave  him  the 
chain,  and  so  like  were  the  two  brothers,  the  goldsmith  was  as 
certain  he  had  delivered  the  chain  into  his  hands,  till  at  last  the 
officer  took  the  goldsmith  away  to  prison  for  the  debt  he  owed, 
and  at  the  same  time  the  goldsmith  made  the  officer  arrest 
Antipholus  for  the  price  of  the  chain;   so  that  at  the  conclusion 

[2181 


SHAKESPEARE 

of  their  dispute  Antipholus  and  the  merchant  were  both  taken 
away  to  prison  together. 

As  Antipholus  was  going  to  prison,  he  met  Dromio  of  Syracuse, 
his  brother's  slave,  and,  mistaking  him  for  his  own,  he  ordered  him 
to  go  to  Adriana  his  wife,  and  tell  her  to  send  the  money  for  which 
he  was  arrested.  Dromio,  wondering  that  his  master  should  send 
him  back  to  the  strange  house  where  he  dined,  and  from  which 
he  had  just  before  been  in  such  haste  to  depart,  did  not  dare 
to  reply,  though  he  came  to  tell  his  master  the  ship  was  ready  to 
sail,  for  he  saw  Antipholus  was  in  no  humor  to  be  jested  with. 
Therefore  he  went  away,  grumbling  within  himself  that  he  must 
return  to  Adriana's  house,  "Where,"  said  he,  "Dowsabel  claims 
me  for  a  husband.  But  I  must  go,  for  servants  must  obey  their 
masters'  commands." 

Adriana  gave  him  the  money,  and  as  Dromio  was  returning 
he  met  Antipholus  of  Syracuse,  who  was  still  in  amaze  at  the 
surprising  adventures  he  met  with,  for,  his  brother  being  well 
known  in  Ephesus,  there  was  hardly  a  man  he  met  in  the  streets 
but  saluted  him  as  an  old  acquaintance.  Some  offered  him 
money  which  they  said  was  owing  to  him,  some  invited  him  to 
come  and  see  them,  and  some  gave  him  thanks  for  kindnesses 
they  said  he  had  done  them,  all  mistaking  him  for  his  brother. 
A  tailor  showed  him  some  silks  he  had  bought  for  him,  and 
insisted  upon  taking  measure  of  him  for  some  clothes. 

Antipholus  began  to  think  he  was  among  a  nation  of  sorcerers 
and  witches,  and  Dromio  did  not  at  all  relieve  his  master  from 
his  bewildered  thoughts  by  asking  him  how  he  got  free  from  the 
officer  who  was  carrying  him  to  prison,  and  giving  him  the  purse 
of  gold  which  Adriana  had  sent  to  pay  the  debt  with.  This 
talk  of  Dromio's  of  the  arrest  and  of  a  prison,  and  of  the  money 
he  had  brought  from  Adriana,  perfectly  confounded  Antipholus, 
and  he  said,  "This  fellow  Dromio  is  certainly  distracted,  and  we 
wander  here  in  illusions,"  and,  quite  terrified  at  his  own  confused 
thoughts,  he  cried  out,  "Some  blessed  power  deliver  us  from  this 
Strange  place!" 

[219I 


TALES    FROM 

And  now  another  stranger  came  up  to  him,  and  she  was  a  lady, 
and  she,  too,  called  him  Antipholus,  and  told  him  he  had  dined 
with  her  that  day,  and  asked  him  for  a  gold  chain  which  she  said 
he  had  promised  to  give  her.  Antipholus  now  lost  all  patience, 
and,  calling  her  a  sorceress,  he  denied  that  he  had  ever  promised 
her  a  chain,  or  dined  with  her,  or  had  even  seen  her  face  Lefore 
that  moment.  The  lady  persisted  in  affirming  he  had  dined 
with  her  and  had  promised  her  a  chain,  which  Antipholus  still 
denying,  she  further  said  that  she  had  given  him  a  valuable  ring, 
and  if  he  would  not  give  her  the  gold  chain,  she  insisted  upon 
having  her  own  ring  again.  On  this  Antipholus  became  quite 
frantic,  and  again  calling  her  sorceress  and  witch,  and  denying 
all  knowledge  of  her  or  her  ring,  ran  away  from  her,  leaving  her 
astonished  at  his  words  and  his  wild  looks,  for  nothing  to  her 
appeared  more  certain  than  that  he  had  dined  with  her,  and  that 
she  had  given  him  a  ring  in  consequence  of  his  promising  to 
make  her  a  present  of  a  gold  chain.  But  this  lady  had  fallen 
into  the  same  mistake  the  others  had  done,  for  she  had  taken 
him  for  his  brother;  the  married  Antipholus  had  done  all  the 
things  she  taxed  this  Antipholus  with. 

When  the  married  Antipholus  was  denied  entrance  into  his 
house  (those  within  supposing  him  to  be  already  there)  he  had 
gone  away  very  angry,  believing  it  to  be  one  of  his  wife's  jealous 
freaks,  to  which  she  was  very  subject,  and,  remembering  that 
she  had  often  falsely  accused  him  of  visiting  other  ladies,  he,  to 
be  revenged  on  her  for  shutting  him  out  of  his  own  house,  de- 
termined to  go  and  dine  with  this  lady,  and  she  receiving  him 
with  great  civility,  and  his  wife  having  so  highly  offended  him, 
Antipholus  promised  to  give  her  a  gold  chain  which  he  had  in- 
tended as  a  present  for  his  wife;  it  was  the  same  chain  which  the 
goldsmith  by  mistake  had  given  to  his  brother.  The  lady  liked 
so  well  the  thoughts  of  having  a  fine  gold  chain  that  she  gave 
the  married  Antipholus  a  ring;  which  when,  as  she  supposed 
(taking  his  brother  for  him),  he  denied,  and  said  he  did  not 
know  her,  and  left  her  in  such  a  wild  passion,  she  began  to 

[220] 


SHAKESPEARE 

think  he  was  certainly  out  of  his  senses;  and  presently  she  resolved 
to  go  and  tell  Adriana  that  her  husband  was  mad.  And  while  she 
was  telling  it  to  Adriana  he  came,  attended  by  the  jailer  (who 
allowed  him  to  come  home  to  get  the  money  to  pay  the  debt), 
for  the  purse  of  money  which  Adriana  had  sent  by  Dromio  and 
he  had  delivered  to  the  other  Antipholus. 

Adriana  believed  the  story  the  lady  told  her  of  her  husband's 
madness  must  be  true  when  he  reproached  her  for  shutting  him 
out  of  his  own  house;  and  remembering  how  he  had  protested 
all  dinner-time  that  he  was  not  her  husband  and  had  never 
been  in  Ephesus  till  that  day,  she  had  no  doubt  that  he  was 
mad;  she  therefore  paid  the  jailer  the  money,  and,  having 
discharged  him,  she  ordered  her  servants  to  bind  her  husband 
with  ropes,  and  had  him  conveyed  into  a  dark  room,  and 
sent  for  a  doctor  to  come  and  cure  him  of  his  madness, 
Antipholus  all  the  while  hotly  exclaiming  against  this  false 
accusation,  which  the  exact  likeness  he  bore  to  his  brother 
had  brought  upon  him.  But  his  rage  only  the  more  con- 
firmed them  in  the  belief  that  he  was  mad;  and  Dromio  per- 
sisting in  the  same  story,  they  bound  him  also  and  took  him 
away  along  with  his  master. 

Soon  after  Adriana  had  put  her  husband  into  confinement  a 
servant  came  to  tell  her  that  Antipholus  and  Dromio  must  have 
broken  loose  from  their  keepers,  for  that  they  were  both  walking 
at  liberty  in  the  next  street.  On  hearing  this  Adriana  ran  out  to 
fetch  him  home,  taking  some  people  with  her  to  secure  her  husband 
again;  and  her  sister  went  along  with  her.  When  they  came  to 
the  gates  of  a  convent  in  their  neighborhood,  there  they  saw 
Antipholus  and  Dromio,  as  they  thought,  being  again  deceived 
by  the  likeness  of  the  twin  brothers. 

Antipholus  of  Syracuse  was  still  beset  with  the  perplexities 
this  likeness  had  brought  upon  him.  The  chain  which  the  gold- 
smith had  given  him  was  about  his  neck,  and  the  goldsmith  was 
reproaching  him  for  denying  that  he  had  it  and  refusing  to  pay 

for  it,  and  Antipholus  was  protesting  that  the  goldsmith  freely 

[221] 


TALES    FROM 

gave  him  the  chain  in  the  morning,  and  that  from  that  hour  he 
had  never  seen  the  goldsmith  again. 

And  now  Adriana  came  up  to  him  and  claimed  him  as  her 
lunatic  husband  who  had  escaped  from  his  keepers,  and  the  men 
she  brought  with  her  were  going  to  lay  violent  hands  on  Antipholus 
and  Dromio;  but  they  ran  into  the  convent,  and  Antipholus 
begged  the  abbess  to  give  him  shelter  in  her  house. 

And  now  came  out  the  lady  abbess  herself  to  inquire  into  the 
cause  of  this  disturbance.  She  was  a  grave  and  venerable  lady, 
and  wise  to  judge  of  what  she  saw,  and  she  would  not  too  hastily 
give  up  the  man  who  had  sought  protection  in  her  house;  so 
she  strictly  questioned  the  wife  about  the  story  she  told  of  her 
husband's  madness,  and  she  said: 

"What  is  the  cause  of  this  sudden  distemper  of  your  husband's? 
Has  he  lost  his  wealth  at  sea  ?  Or  is  it  the  death  of  some  dear 
friend  that  has  disturbed  his  mind?" 

Adriana  replied  that  no  such  things  as  these  had  been  the  cause. 

"Perhaps,"  said  the  abbess,  "he  has  fixed  his  affections  on  some 
other  lady  than  you,  his  wife,  and  that  has  driven  him  to  this 
state." 

Adriana  said  she  had  long  thought  the  love  of  some  other  lady 
was  the  cause  of  his  frequent  absences  from  home. 

Now  it  was  not  his  love  for  another,  but  the  teasing  jealousy  of 
his  wife's  temper,  that  often  obliged  Antipholus  to  leave  his 
home;  and  the  abbess  (suspecting  this  from  the  vehemence  of 
Adriana's  manner),  to  learn  the  truth,  said: 

"You  should  have  reprehended  him  for  this." 

"Why,  so  I  did,"  replied  Adriana. 

"Aye,"  said  the  abbess,  "but  perhaps  not  enough." 

Adriana,  willing  to  convince  the  abbess  that  she  had  said 
enough  to  Antipholus  on  this  subject,  replied:  "It  was  the 
constant  subject  of  our  conversation;  in  bed  I  would  not  let 
him  sleep  for  speaking  of  it.  At  table  I  would  not  let  him 
eat  for  speaking  of  it.     When  I  was  alone  with  him  I  talked 

of  nothing  else;  and  in  company  I  gave  him  frequent  hints 

[222] 


SHAKESPEARE 

of  it.     Still  all  my  talk  was  how  vile  and  bad  it  was  in  him 
to  love  any  lady  better  than  me." 

The  lady  abbess,  having  drawn  this  full  confession  from  the 
jealous  Adriana,  now  said:  "And  therefore  comes  it  that  your 
husband  is  mad.  The  venomous  clamor  of  a  jealous  woman  is 
a  more  deadly  poison  than  a  mad  dog's  tooth.  It  seems  his 
sleep  was  hindered  by  your  railing;  no  wonder  that  his  head  is 
light;  and  his  meat  was  sauced  with  your  upbraidings;  unquiet 
meals  make  ill  digestions,  and  that  has  thrown  him  into  this 
fever.  You  say  his  sports  were  disturbed  by  your  brawls;  being 
debarred  from  the  enjoyment  of  society  and  recreation,  what 
could  ensue  but  dull  melancholy  and  comfortless  despair?  The 
consequence  is,  then,  that  your  jealous  fits  have  made  your 
husband  mad." 

Luciana  would  have  excused  her  sister,  saying  she  always  repre- 
hended her  husband  mildly;  and  she  said  to  her  sister,  "Why 
do  you  hear  these  rebukes  without  answering  them?" 

But  the  abbess  had  made  her  so  plainly  perceive  her  fault 
that  she  could  only  answer,  "She  has  betrayed  me  to  my  own 
reproof." 

Adriana,  though  ashamed  of  her  own  conduct,  still  insisted 
on  having  her  husband  delivered  up  to  her;  but  the  abbess 
would  suffer  no  person  to  enter  her  house,  nor  would  she  deliver 
up  this  unhappy  man  to  the  care  of  the  jealous  wife,  determining 
herself  to  use  gentle  means  for  his  recovery,  and  she  retired  into 
her  house  again,  and  ordered  her  gates  to  be  shut  against  them. 

During  the  course  of  this  eventful  day,  in  which  so  many  errors 
had  happened  from  the  likeness  the  twin  brothers  bore  to  each 
other,  old  iEgeon's  day  of  grace  was  passing  away,  it  being  now 
near  sunset;  and  at  sunset  he  was  doomed  to  die  if  he  could  not 
pay  the  money. 

The  place  of  his  execution  was  near  this  convent,  and  here  he 
arrived  just  as  the  abbess  retired  into  the  convent;  the  duke 
attending  in  person,  that,  if  any  offered  to  pay  the  money,  he 
might  be  present  to  pardon  him. 

[  223  ] 


TALES    FROM 

Adriana  stopped  this  melancholy  procession,  and  cried  out  to 
the  duke  for  justice,  telling  him  that  the  abbess  had  refused  to 
deliver  up  her  lunatic  husband  to  her  care.  While  she  was 
speaking,  her  real  husband  and  his  servant,  Dromio,  who  had  got 
loose,  came  before  the  duke  to  demand  justice,  complaining  that 
his  wife  had  confined  him  on  a  false  charge  of  lunacy,  and  telling 
in  what  manner  he  had  broken  his  bands  and  eluded  the  vigilance 
of  his  keepers.  Adriana  was  strangely  surprised  to  see  her 
husband  when  she  thought  he  had  been  within  the  convent. 

iEgeon,  seeing  his  son,  concluded  this  was  the  son  who  had 
left  him  to  go  in  search  of  his  mother  and  his  brother,  and  he 
felt  secure  that  this  dear  son  would  readily  pay  the  money 
demanded  for  his  ransom.  He  therefore  spoke  to  Antipholus  in 
words  of  fatherly  affection,  with  joyful  hope  that  he  should  now 
be  released.  But,  to  the  utter  astonishment  of  iEgeon,  his  son 
denied  all  knowledge  of  him,  as  well  he  might,  for  this  Antipholus 
had  never  seen  his  father  since  they  were  separated  in  the  storm 
in  his  infancy.  But  while  the  poor  old  iEgeon  was  in  vain 
endeavoring  to  make  his  son  acknowledge  him,  thinking  surely 
that  either  his  griefs  and  the  anxieties  he  had  suffered  had  so 
strangely  altered  him  that  his  son  did  not  know  him  or  else 
that  he  was  ashamed  to  acknowledge  his  father  in  his  misery — 
in  the  midst  of  this  perplexity  the  lady  abbess  and  the  other 
Antipholus  and  Dromio  came  out,  and  the  wondering  Adriana 
saw  two  husbands  and  two  Dromios  standing  before  her. 

And  now  these  riddling  errors,  which  had  so  perplexed  them 
all,  were  clearly  made  out.  When  the  duke  saw  the  two  An- 
tipholuses  and  the  two  Dromios  both  so  exactly  alike,  he  at  once 
conjectured  aright  of  these  seeming  mysteries,  for  he  remembered 
the  story  iEgeon  had  told  him  in  the  morning;  and  he  said 
these  men  must  be  the  two  sons  of  iEgeon  and  their  twin  slaves. 

But  now  an  unlooked-for  joy  indeed  completed  the  history 
of  iEgeon;  and  the  tale  he  had  in  the  morning  told  in  sorrow, 
and  under  sentence  of  death,  before  the  setting  sun  went  down 
was  brought  to  a  happy  conclusion,  for  the  venerable  lady  abbess 

[  224  ] 


SHAKESPEARE 

made  herself  known  to  be  the  long-lost  wife  of  ^geon  and  the 
fond  mother  of  the  two  Antipholuses. 

When  the  fishermen  took  the  eldest  Antipholus  and  Dromio 
away  from  her,  she  entered  a  nunnery,  and  by  her  wise  and  virtu- 
ous conduct  she  was  at  length  made  lady  abbess  of  this  convent 
and  in  discharging  the  rites  of  hospitality  to  an  unhappy  stranger 
she  had  unknowingly  protected  her  own  son. 

Joyful  congratulations  and  affectionate  greetings  between 
these  long-separated  parents  and  their  children  made  them  for  a 
while  forget  that  iEgeon  was  yet  under  sentence  of  death.  When 
they  were  become  a  little  calm,  Antipholus  of  Ephesus  offered 
the  duke  the  ransom  money  for  his  father's  life;  but  the  duke 
freely  pardoned  iEgeon,  and  would  not  take  the  money.  And 
the  duke  went  with  the  abbess  and  her  newly  found  husband 
and  children  into  the  convent,  to  hear  this  happy  family  discourse 
at  leisure  of  the  blessed  ending  of  their  adverse  fortunes.  And 
the  two  Dromios'  humble  joy  must  not  be  forgotten;  they  had 
their  congratulations  and  greetings,  too,  and  each  Dromio 
pleasantly  complimented  his  brother  on  his  good  looks,  being 
well  pleased  to  see  his  own  person  (as  in  a  glass)  show  so  handsome 
in  his  brother. 

Adriana  had  so  well  profited  by  the  good  counsel  of  her  mother- 
in-law  that  she  never  after  cherished  unjust  suspicions  nor  was 
jealous  of  her  husband. 

Antipholus  of  Syracuse  married  the  fair  Luciana,  the  sister 
of  his  brother's  wife;  and  the  good  old  iEgeon,  with  his  wife  and 
sons,  lived  at  Ephesus  many  years.  Nor  did  the  unraveling 
of  these  perplexities  so  entirely  remove  every  ground  of  mistake 
for  the  future  but  that  sometimes,  to  remind  them  of  adventures 
past,  comical  blunders  would  happen,  and  the  one  Antipholus, 
and  the  one  Dromio,  be  mistaken  for  the  other,  making  altogether 
a  pleasant  and  diverting  Comedy  of  Errors. 
15 


TALES    FROM 


MEASURE   FOR   MEASURE 


]N  the  city  of  Vienna  there  once  reigned 
a  duke  of  such  a  mild  and  gentle  temper 
that  he  suffered  his  subjects  to  neglect 
the  laws  with  impunity;  and  there  was 
in  particular  one  law  the  existence  of 
which  was  almost  forgotten,  the  duke 
never  having  put  it  in  force  during  his 
whole  reign.  This  was  a  law  dooming 
any  man  to  the  punishment  of  death 
who  should  live  with  a  woman  that  was  not  his  wife;  and  this 
law,  through  the  lenity  of  the  duke,  being  utterly  disregarded, 
the  holy  institution  of  marriage  became  neglected,  and  complaints 
were  every  day  made  to  the  duke  by  the  parents  of  the  young 
ladies  in  Vienna  that  their  daughters  had  been  seduced  from 
their  protection  and  were  living  as  the  companions  of  single  men. 
The  good  duke  perceived  with  sorrow  this  growing  evil  among 
his  subjects;  but  he  thought  that  a  sudden  change  in  himself 
from  the  indulgence  he  had  hitherto  shown,  to  the  strict  severity 
requisite  to  check  this  abuse,  would  make  his  people  (who  had 
hitherto  loved  him)  consider  him  as  a  tyrant;  therefore  he  de- 
termined to  absent  himself  awhile  from  his  dukedom  and  depute 
another  to  the  full  exercise  of  his  power,  that  the  law  against 
these  dishonorable  lovers  might  be  put  in  effect,  without  giving 
offense  by  an  unusual  severity  in  his  own  person. 

Angelo,  a  man  who  bore  the  reputation  of  a  saint  in  Vienna 
for  his  strict  and  rigid  life,  was  chosen  by  the  duke  as  a  fit  person 
to  undertake  this  important  charge;  and  when  the  duke  in> 
parted  his  design  to  Lord  Escalus,  his  chief  counselor,  Escalus 

said: 

[226] 


SHAKESPEARE 


"If  any  man  in  Vienna  be  of  worth  to  undergo  such  ample 
grace  and  honor,  it  is  Lord  Angelo." 

And  now  the  duke  departed  from  Vienna  under  pretense  of 
making  a  journey  into  Poland,  leaving  Angelo  to  act  as  the  lord 
deputy  in  his  absence;  but  the  duke's  absence  was  only  a  feigned 
one,  for  he  privately  returned  to  Vienna, 
habited  like  a  friar,  with  the  intent  to 
watch  unseen  the  conduct  of  the  saintly 
seeming  Angelo. 

It  happened  just  about  the  time  that 
Angelo  was  invested  with  his  new  dignity 
that  a  gentleman,  whose  name  was 
Claudio,  had  seduced  a  young  lady  from 
her  parents;  and  for  this  offense,  by 
command  of  the  new  lord  deputy, 
Claudio  was  taken  up  and  committed  to 
prison,  and  by  virtue  of  the  old  law 
which  had  been  so  long  neglected  An- 
gelo sentenced  Claudio  to  be  beheaded. 
Great  interest  was  made  for  the  pardon 
of  young  Claudio,  and  the  good  old 
Lord  Escalus  himself  interceded  for  him. 

"Alas!"     said     he,    "this     gentleman 
whom  I  would  save  had  an  honorable  father,  for  whose  sake  I 
pray  you  pardon  the  young  man's  transgression." 

But  Angelo  replied:  "We  must  not  make  a  scarecrow  of  the 
law,  setting  it  up  to  frighten  birds  of  prey,  till  custom,  finding  it 
harmless,  makes  it  their  perch  and  not  their  terror.  Sir,  he  must 
die." 

Lucio,  the  friend  of  Claudio,  visited  him  in  the  prison,  and 
Claudio  said  to  him:  "I  pray  you,  Lucio,  do  me  this  kind  service. 
Go  to  my  sister  Isabel,  who  this  day  proposes  to  enter  the  convent 
of  Saint  Clare;  acquaint  her  with  the  danger  of  my  state;  implore 
her  that  she  make  friends  with  the  strict  deputy;  bid  her  go 
herself  to  Angelo.     I  have  great  hopes  in  that;   for  she  can  dis- 

[227] 


TALES    FROM 

course  with  prosperous  art,  and  well  she  can  persuade;  besides, 
there  is  a  speechless  dialect  in  youthful  sorrow  such  as  moves  men." 

Isabel,  the  sister  of  Claudio,  had,  as  he  said,  that  day  entered 
upon  her  novitiate  in  the  convent,  and  it  was  her  intent,  after 
passing  through  her  probation  as  a  novice,  to  take  the  veil,  and 
she  was  inquiring  of  a  nun  concerning  the  rules  of  the  convent 
when  they  heard  the  voice  of  Lucio,  who,  as  he  entered  that 
religious  house,  said,  "Peace  be  in  this  place!" 

"Who  is  it  that  speaks?"  said  Isabel. 

"It  is  a  man's  voice,"  replied  the  nun.  "Gentle  Isabel,  go 
to  him,  and  learn  his  business;  you  may,  I  may  not.  When 
you  have  taken  the  veil,  you  must  not  speak  with  men  but  in  the 
presence  of  the  prioress;  then  if  you  speak  you  must  not  show 
your  face,  or  if  you  show  your  face  you  must  not  speak." 

"And  have  you  nuns  no  further  privileges?"  said  Isabel. 

"Are  not  these  large  enough  ?"  replied  the  nun. 

"Yes,  truly,"  said  Isabel.  "I  speak  not  as  desiring  more,  but 
rather  wishing  a  more  strict  restraint  upon  the  sisterhood,  the 
votarists  of  Saint  Clare." 

Again  they  heard  the  voice  of  Lucio,  and  the  nun  said:  "He 
calls  again.     I  pray  you  answer  him." 

Isabel  then  went  out  to  Lucio,  and  in  answer  to  his  salutation, 
said:  "Peace  and  Prosperity!    Who  is  it  that  calls?" 

Then  Lucio,  approaching  her  with  reverence,  said:  "Hail, 
virgin,  if  such  you  be,  as  the  roses  on  your  cheeks  proclaim  you 
are  no  less!  Can  you  bring  me  to  the  sight  of  Isabel,  a  novice  of 
this  place,  and  the  fair  sister  to  her  unhappy  brother  Claudio?" 

"Why  her  unhappy  brother?"  said  Isabel,  "let  me  ask!  for 
I  am  that  Isabel  and  his  sister." 

"Fair  and  gentle  lady,"  he  replied,  "your  brother  kindly  greets 
you  by  me;  he  is  in  prison." 

"Woe  is  me!  for  what?"  said  Isabel. 

Lucio  then  told  her  Claudio  was  imprisoned  for  seducing  a 
young  maiden.     "Ah,"  said  she,  "I  fear  it  is  my  cousin  Juliet." 

Juliet  and  Isabel  were  not  related,  but  they  called  each  other 

I  228  J 


SHAKESPEARE 


cousin  in  remembrance  of  their  school-days'  friendship;  and  as 
Isabel  knew  that  Juliet  loved  Claudio,  she  feared  she  had  been 
led  by  her  affection  for  him  into  this  transgression. 

"She  it  is,"  replied  Lucio. 

"Why,  then,  let  my  brother  marry  Juliet,"  said  Isabel. 

Lucio  replied  that  Claudio  would  gladly  marry  Juliet,  but  that 
the  lord  deputy  had  sentenced  him 
to  die  for  his  offense.  "Unless," 
said  he,  "you  have  the  grace  by 
your  fair  prayer  to  soften  Angelo, 
and  that  is  my  business  between  you 
and  your  poor  brother." 

"Alas!"  said  Isabel,  "what  poor 
ability  is  there  in  me  to  do  him  good? 
I  doubt  I  have  no  power  to  move 
Angelo." 

"Our  doubts  are  traitors,"  said 
Lucio,  "and  make  us  lose  the  good 
we  might  often  win,  by  fearing  to 
attempt  it.  Go  to  Lord  Angelo! 
When  maidens  sue  and  kneel  and 
weep  men  give  like  gods." 

"I  will  see  what  I  can  do,"  said 
Isabel.  "I  will  but  stay  to  give  the 
prioress  notice  of  the  affair,  and  then  I  will  go  to  Angelo. 
Commend  me  to  my  brother.  Soon  at  night  I  will  send  him 
word  of  my  success." 

Isabel  hastened  to  the  palace  and  threw  herself  on  her  knees 
before  Angelo,  saying,  "I  am  a  woeful  suitor  to  your  Honor,  if  it 
will  please  your  Honor  to  hear  me." 

"Well,  what  is  your  suit?"  said  Angelo. 

She  then  made  her  petition  in  the  most  moving  terms  for  her 
brother's  life. 

But  Angelo  said,  "Maiden,  there  is  no  remedy;  your  brother 
is  sentenced,  and  he  must  die." 

1 229  J 


TALES    FRO 

"Oh,  just  but  severe  law!"  said  Isabel.  "I  had  a  brother  then. 
Heaven  keep  your  Honor!"  and  she  was  about  to  depart. 

But  Lucio,  who  had  accompanied  her,  said:  "Give  it  not  over 
so;  return  to  him  again,  entreat  him,  kneel  down  before  him, 
hang  upon  his  gown.  You  are  too  cold;  if  you  should  need  a 
pin,  you  could  not  with  a  more  tame  tongue  desire  it." 

Then  again  Isabel  on  her  knees  implored  for  mercy. 

"He  is  sentenced,"  said  Angelo.     "It  is  too  late." 

"Too  late!"  said  Isabel.  "Why,  no!  I  that  do  speak  a  word 
may  call  it  back  again.  Believe  this,  my  lord,  no  ceremony 
that  to  great  ones  belongs,  not  the  king's  crown,  nor  the  deputed 
sword,  the  marshal's  truncheon,  nor  the  judge's  robe,  becomes 
them  with  one  half  so  good  a  grace  as  mercy  does." 

"Pray  you  begone,"  said  Angelo. 

But  still  Isabel  entreated;  and  she  said:  "If  my  brother  had 
been  as  you,  and  you  as  he,  you  might  have  slipped  like  him,  but  he, 
like  you,  would  not  have  been  so  stern.  I  would  to  Heaven  I  had 
your  power  and  you  were  Isabel.  Should  it  then  be  thus?  No,  I 
would  tell  you  what  it  were  to  be  a  judge,  and  what  a  prisoner." 

"Be  content,  fair  maid!"  said  Angelo:  "it  is  the  law,  not  I, 
condemns  your  brother.  Were  he  my  kinsman,  my  brother,  or 
my  son,  it  should  be  thus  with  him.     He  must  die  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?"  said  Isabel.  "Oh,  that  is  sudden!  Spare  him, 
spare  him.  He  is  not  prepared  for  death.  Even  for  our  kitchens 
we  kill  the  fowl  in  season;  shall  we  serve  Heaven  with  less  respect 
than  we  minister  to  our  gross  selves?  Good,  good,  my  lord,  be- 
think you,  none  have  died  for  my  brother's  offense,  though  many 
have  committed  it.  So  you  would  be  the  first  that  gives  this  sen- 
tence and  he  the  first  that  suffers  it.  Go  to  your  own  bosom,  my 
lord;  knock  there,  and  ask  your  heart  what  it  does  know  that  is 
like  my  brother's  fault;  if  it  confess  a  natural  guiltiness  such  as 
his  is,  let  it  not  sound  a  thought  against  my  brother's  life!" 

Her  last  words  more  moved  Angelo  than  all  she  had  before 
said,  for  the  beauty  of  Isabel  had  raised  a  guilty  passion  in 
his  heart  and  he  began  to  form  thoughts  of  dishonorable  love, 

[230] 


SHAKESPEARE 

such  as  Claudio's  crime  had  been,  and  the  conflict  in  his 
mind  made  him  to  turn  away  from  Isabel;  but  she  called 
him  back,  saying:  "Gentle  my  lord,  turn  back.  Hark,  how 
I  will  bribe  you.     Good  my  lord,  turn  back!" 


"How!  bribe 
me?"  said  Angelo, 
astonished  that 
she  should  think 
of  offering  him  a 
bribe. 

"Aye,"  said 
Isabel,  "with  such 
gifts  that  Heaven 
itself  shall  share 
with  you ;  not  with 
golden  treasures, 
or  those  glittering 
stones  whose  price 
is  either  rich  or 
poor  as  fancy 
values  them,  but 
with  true  prayers 
that  shall  be  up 
to  Heaven  before 
sunrise — prayers 
from  preserved 
souls,  from  fasting 
maids  whose 
minds  are  dedi- 
cated to  nothing 
temporal." 

"Well,  come  to  me  to-morrow,"  said  Angelo. 

And  for  this  short  respite  of  her  brother's  life,  and  for  this 
permission  that  she  might  be  heard  again,  she  left  him  with 
the  joyful  hope  that  she  should  at  last  prevail  over  his  stern 

[231] 


TALES    FROM 

nature.  And  as  she  went  away  she  said:  "Heaven  keep  your 
Honor  safe!  Heaven  save  your  Honor!"  Which,  when  Angelo 
heard,  he  said  within  his  heart,  "Amen,  I  would  be  saved  from 
thee  and  from  thy  virtues."  And  then,  affrighted  at  his  own 
evil  thoughts,  he  said:  "What  is  this?  What  is  this?  Do  I 
love  her,  that  I  desire  to  hear  her  speak  again  and  feast  upon 
her  eyes?  What  is  it  I  dream  on?  The  cunning  enemy  of  man- 
kind, to  catch  a  saint,  with  saints  does  bait  the  hook.  Never 
could  an  immodest  woman  once  stir  my  temper,  but  this  virtuous 
woman  subdues  me  quite.  Even  till  now,  when  men  were  fond, 
I  smiled  and  wondered  at  them." 

In  the  guilty  conflict  in  his  mind  Angelo  suffered  more  that 
night  than  the  prisoner  he  had  so  severely  sentenced;  for  in  the 
prison  Claudio  was  visited  by  the  good  duke,  who,  in  his  friar's 
habit,  taught  the  young  man  the  way  to  heaven,  preaching  to 
him  the  words  of  penitence  and  peace.  But  Angelo  felt  all  the 
pangs  of  irresolute  guilt,  now  wishing  to  seduce  Isabel  from  the 
paths  of  innocence  and  honor,  and  now  suffering  remorse  and 
horror  for  a  crime  as  yet  but  intentional.  But  in  the  end  his  evil 
thoughts  prevailed;  and  he  who  had  so  lately  started  at  the 
offer  of  a  bribe  resolved  to  tempt  this  maiden  with  so  high  a 
bribe  as  she  might  not  be  able  to  resist,  even  with  the  precious 
gift  of  her  dear  brother's  life. 

When  Isabel  came  in  the  morning  Angelo  desired  she  might 
be  admitted  alone  to  his  presence;  and  being  there,  he  said  to  her, 
if  she  would  yield  to  him  her  virgin  honor  and  transgress  even  as 
Juliet  had  done  with  Claudio,  he  would  give  her  her  brother's 
life. 

"For,"  said  he,  "I  love  you,  Isabel." 

"My  brother,"  said  Isabel,  "did  so  love  Juliet,  and  yet  you 
tell  me  he  shall  die  for  it." 

"But,"  said  Angelo,  "Claudio  shall  not  die  if  you  will  consent 
to  visit  me  by  stealth  at  night,  even  as  Juliet  left  her  father's 
house  at  night  to  come  to  Claudio." 

Isabel,  in  amazement  at  his  words,  that  he  should  tempt  her 

[2321 


SHAKESPEARE 

to  the  same  fault  for  which  he  passed  sentence  upon  her  brother, 
said,  "I  would  do  as  much  for  my  poor  brother  as  for  myself; 
that  is,  were  I  under  sentence  of  death,  the  impression  of  keen 
whips  I  would  wear  as  rubies,  and  go  to  my  death  as  to  a  bed 
that  longing  I  had  been  sick  for,  ere  I  would  yield  myself  up  to 
this  shame."  And  then  she  told  him  she  hoped  he  only  spoke 
these  words  to  try  her  virtue. 

But  he  said,  "Believe  me,  on  my  honor,  my  words  express  my 
purpose." 

Isabel,  angered  to  the  heart  to  hear  him  use  the  word  honor 
to  express  such  dishonorable  purposes,  said:  "Ha!  little  honor 
to  be  much  believed;  and  most  pernicious  purpose.  I  will 
proclaim  thee,  Angelo,  look  for  it!  Sign  me  a  present  pardon 
for  my  brother,  or  I  will  tell  the  world  aloud  what  man  thou 
art!" 

"Who  will  believe  you,  Isabel?"  said  Angelo;  "my  unsoiled 
name,  the  austereness  of  my  life,  my  word  vouched  against  yours, 
will  outweigh  your  accusation.  Redeem  your  brother  by  yielding 
to  my  will,  or  he  shall  die  to-morrow.  As  for  you,  say  what  you 
can,  my  false  will  overweigh  your  true  story.  Answer  me 
to-morrow." 

"To  whom  should  I  complain?  Did  I  tell  this,  who  would 
believe  me?"  said  Isabel,  as  she  went  toward  the  dreary  prison 
where  her  brother  was  confined.  When  she  arrived  there  her 
brother  was  in  pious  conversation  with  the  duke,  who  in  his 
friar's  habit  had  also  visited  Juliet  and  brought  both  these  guilty 
lovers  to  a  proper  sense  of  their  fault;  and  unhappy  Juliet  with 
tears  and  a  true  remorse  confessed  that  she  was  more  to  blame 
than  Claudio,  in  that  she  willingly  consented  to  his  dishonorable 
solicitations. 

As  Isabel  entered  the  room  where  Claudio  was  confined,  she 
said,  "Peace  be  here,  grace,  and  good  company!" 

"Who  is  there?"  said  the  disguised  duke.  "Come  in;  the  wish 
deserves  a  welcome." 

"  My  business  is  a  word  or  two  with  Claudio,"  said  Isabel. 

[233] 


TALES    FROM 

Then  the  duke  left  them  together,  and  desired  the  provost  who 
had  the  charge  of  the  prisoners  to  place  him  where  he  might  over- 
hear their  conversation. 

"Now,  sister,  what  is  the  comfort?"  said  Claudio. 

Isabel  told  him  he  must  prepare  for  death  on  the  morrow. 

"Is  there  no  remedy?"  said  Claudio. 

"Yes,  brother,"  replied  Isabel,  "there  is;  but  such  a  one  as 
if  you  consented  to  it  would  strip  your  honor  from  you  and 
leave  you  naked." 

"Let  me  know  the  point,"  said  Claudio. 

"Oh,  I  do  fear  you,  Claudio!"  replied  his  sister;  "and  I  quake, 
lest  you  should  wish  to  live,  and  more  respect  the  trifling  term 
of  six  or  seven  winters  added  to  your  life  than  your  perpetual 
honor!  Do  you  dare  to  die?  The  sense  of  death  is  most  in  appre- 
hension, and  the  poor  beetle  that  we  tread  upon  feels  a  pang  as 
great  as  when  a  giant  dies." 

"Why  do  you  give  me  this  shame?"  said  Claudio.  "Think  you 
I  can  fetch  a  resolution  from  flowery  tenderness?  If  I  must 
die,  I  will  encounter  darkness  as  a  bride  and  hug  it  in  my  arms." 

"There  spoke  my  brother,"  said  Isabel;  "there  my  father's 
grave  did  utter  forth  a  voice!  Yes,  you  must  die;  yet  would 
you  think  it,  Claudio,  this  outward  sainted  deputy,  if  I  would 
yield  to  him  my  virgin  honor,  would  grant  your  life?  Oh,  were 
it  but  my  life,  I  would  lay  it  down  for  your  deliverance  as  frankly 
as  a  pin!" 

"Thanks,  dear  Isabel,"  said  Claudio. 

"Be  ready  to  die  to-morrow,"  said  Isabel. 

"Death  is  a  fearful  thing,"  said  Claudio. 

"And  shamed  life  a  hateful,"  replied  his  sister. 

But  the  thoughts  of  death  now  overcame  the  constancy  of 
Claudio's  temper,  and  terrors,  such  as  the  guilty  only  at  their 
deaths  do  know,  assailing  him,  he  cried  out:  "Sweet  sister,  let 
me  live!  The  sin  you  do  to  save  a  brother's  life,  nature  dispenses 
with  the  deed  so  far  that  it  becomes  a  virtue." 

"O  faithless  coward!  O  dishonest  wretch!"  said  Isabel.  ' 'Would 

[234] 


HEAR  ME,  ISABEL!"  SAID  THE  AGONIZED  CLAUDIO 


SHAKESPEARE 


you  preserve  your  life  by  your  sister's  shame?  Oh,  fie,  fie,  fie! 
I  thought,  my  brother,  you  had  in  you  such  a  mind  of  honor  that, 
had  you  twenty  heads  to  render  up  on  twenty  blocks,  you  would 
have  yielded  them  up  all  before  your  sister  should  stoop  to  such 
dishonor." 

"Nay,  hear  me,  Isabel!"  said  Claudio. 

But  what  he  would  have  said  in  defense  of  his  weakness  in 
desiring  to  live  by  the  dishonor  of 
his  virtuous  sister  was  interrupted 
by  the  entrance  of  the  duke;  who 
said: 

"Claudio,  I  have  overheard  what 
has  passed  between  you  and  your 
sister.  Angelo  had  never  the  pur- 
pose to  corrupt  her;  what  he  said, 
has  only  been  to  make  trial  of  her 
virtue.  She,  having  the  truth  of 
honor  in  her,  has  given  him  that 
gracious  denial  which  he  is  most 
glad  to  receive.  There  is  no  hope 
that  he  will  pardon  you;  therefore 
pass  your  hours  in  prayer,  and  make 
ready  for  death." 

Then  Claudio  repented  of  his 
weakness,  and  said:  "Let  me  ask 
my  sister's  pardon!  I  am  so  out  of  love  with  life  that  I  will 
sue  to  be  rid  of  it."  And  Claudio  retired,  overwhelmed  with 
shame  and  sorrow  for  his  fault. 

The  duke,  being  now  alone  with  Isabel,  commended  her  virtuous 
resolution,  saying,  "The  hand  that  made  you  fair  has  made  you 
good." 

"Oh,"  said  Isabel,  "how  much  is  the  good  duke  deceived  in 
Angelo!  if  ever  he  return,  and  I  can  speak  to  him,  I  will  discover 
his  government."  Isabel  knew  not  that  she  was  even  now  making 
the  discovery  she  threatened. 

I  237 1 


TALES    FROM 

The  duke  replied:  "That  shall  not  be  much  amiss;  yet  as  the 
matter  now  stands,  Angelo  will  repel  your  accusation;  there- 
fore lend  an  attentive  ear  to  my  advisings.  I  believe  that  you 
may  most  righteously  do  a  poor  wronged  lady  a  merited 
benefit,  redeem  your  brother  from  the  angry  law,  do  no  stain 
to  your  own  most  gracious  person,  and  much  please  the 
absent  duke,  if  peradventure  he  shall  ever  return  to  have 
notice  of  this  business." 

Isabel  said  she  had  a  spirit  to  do  anything  he  desired,  provided 
it  was  nothing  wrong. 

"Virtue  is  bold  and  never  fearful,"  said  the  duke:  and  then 
he  asked  her,  if  she  had  ever  heard  of  Mariana,  the  sister  of 
Frederick,  the  great  soldier  who  was  drowned  at  sea. 

"I  have  heard  of  the  lady,"  said  Isabel,  "and  good  words  went 
with  her  name." 

"This  lady,"  said  the  duke,  "is  the  wife  of  Angelo;  but  her 
marriage  dowry  was  on  board  the  vessel  in  which  her  brother 
perished,  and  mark  how  heavily  this  befell  to  the  poor  gentle- 
woman! for,  besides  the  loss  of  a  most  noble  and  renowned  brother, 
who  in  his  love  toward  her  was  ever  most  kind  and  natural,  in 
the  wreck  of  her  fortune  she  lost  the  affections  of  her  husband, 
the  well-seeming  Angelo,  who,  pretending  to  discover  some 
dishonor  in  this  honorable  lady  (though  the  true  cause  was  the 
loss  of  her  dowry),  left  her  in  her  tears  and  dried  not  one  of  them 
with  his  comfort.  His  unjust  unkindness,  that  in  all  reason  should 
have  quenched  her  love,  has,  like  an  impediment  in  the  current, 
made  it  more  unruly,  and  Mariana  loves  her  cruel  husband  with 
the  full  continuance  of  her  first  affection." 

The  duke  then  more  plainly  unfolded  his  plan.  It  was  that 
Isabel  should  go  to  Lord  Angelo  and  seemingly  consent  to  come 
to  him  as  he  desired  at  midnight;  that  by  this  means  she  would 
obtain  the  promised  pardon;  and  that  Mariana  should  go  in  her 
stead  to  the  appointment,  and  pass  herself  upon  Angelo  in  the 
dark  for  Isabel. 

"Nor,  gentle  daughter,"  said  the  feigned  friar,  "fear  you  to 


SHAKESPEARE 

do  this  thing.  Angelo  is  her  husband,  and  to  bring  them  thus 
together  is  no  sin." 

Isabel,  being  pleased  with  this  project,  departed  to  do  as  he 
directed  her;  and  he  went  to  apprise  Mariana  of  their  intention. 
He  had  before  this  time  visited  this  unhappy  lady  in  his  assumed 
character,  giving  her  religious  instruction  and  friendly  consola- 
tion, at  which  times  he  had  learned  her  sad  story  from  her  own 
lips;  and  now  she,  looking  upon  him  as  a  holy  man,  readily  con- 
sented to  be  directed  by  him  in  this  undertaking. 

When  Isabel  returned  from  her  interview  with  Angelo,  to  the 
house  of  Mariana,  where  the  duke  had  appointed  her  to  meet 
him,  he  said:  "Well  met,  and  in  good  time.  What  is  the  news 
from  this  good  deputy?" 

Isabel  related  the  manner  in  which  she  had  settled  the  affair. 
'"Angelo,"  said  she,  "has  a  garden  surrounded  with  a  brick  wall, 
on  the  western  side  of  which  is  a  vineyard,  and  to  that  vineyard 
is  a  gate."  And  then  she  showed  to  the  duke  and  Mariana  two 
keys  that  Angelo  had  given  her;  and  she  said:  "This  bigger  key 
opens  the  vineyard  gate;  this  other  a  little  door  which  leads  from 
the  vineyard  to  the  garden.  There  I  have  made  my  promise  at 
the  dead  of  the  night  to  call  upon  him,  and  have  got  from  him  his 
word  of  assurance  for  my  brother's  life.  I  have  taken  a  due  and 
wary  note  of  the  place;  and  with  whispering  and  most  guilty  dili- 
gence he  showed  me  the  way  twice  over." 

"Are  there  no  other  tokens  agreed  upon  between  you,  that 
Mariana  must  observe?"  said  the  duke. 

"No,  none,"  said  Isabel,  "only  to  go  when  it  is  dark.  I  have 
told  him  my  time  can  be  but  short;  for  I  have  made  him  think 
a  servant  comes  along  with  me,  and  that  this  servant  is  persuaded 
I  come  about  my  brother." 

The  duke  commended  her  discreet  management,  and  she, 
turning  to  Mariana,  said,  "Little  have  you  to  say  to  Angelo, 
when  you  depart  from  him,  but  soft  and  low,  Remember  now  my 
brother!" 

Mariana  was  that  night  conducted  to  the  appointed  place  by 

[239] 


TALES    FROM 

Isabel,  who  rejoiced  that  she  had,  as  she  supposed,  by  this  device 
preserved  both  her  brother's  life  and  her  own  honor.  But  that 
her  brother's  life  was  safe  the  duke  was  not  well  satisfied,  and 
therefore  at  midnight  he  again  repaired  to  the  prison,  and  it  was 
well  for  Claudio  that  he  did  so,  else  would  Claudio  have  that 
night  been  beheaded;  for  soon  after  the  duke  entered  the  prison 
an  order  came  from  the  cruel  deputy  commanding  that  Claudio 
should  be  beheaded  and  his  head  sent  to  him  by  five  o'clock  in 
the  morning.  But  the  duke  persuaded  the  provost  to  put  off" 
the  execution  of  Claudio,  and  to  deceive  Angelo  by  sending  him 
the  head  of  a  man  who  died  that  morning  in  the  prison.  And  to 
prevail  upon  the  provost  to  agree  to  this,  the  duke,  whom  still 
the  provost  suspected  not  to  be  anything  more  or  greater  than  he 
seemed,  showed  the  provost  a  letter  written  with  the  duke's 
hand,  and  sealed  with  his  seal,  which  when  the  provost  saw,  he 
concluded  this  friar  must  have  some  secret  order  from  the  absent 
duke,  and  therefore  he  consented  to  spare  Claudio;  and  he  cut 
off  the  dead  man's  head  and  carried  it  to  Angelo. 

Then  the  duke  in  his  own  name  wrote  to  Angelo  a  letter  saying 
that  certain  accidents  had  put  a  stop  to  his  journey  and  that  he 
should  be  in  Vienna  by  the  following  morning,  requiring  Angelo 
to  meet  him  at  the  entrance  of  the  city,  there  to  deliver  up  his 
authority;  and  the  duke  also  commanded  it  to  be  proclaimed 
that  if  any  of  his  subjects  craved  redress  for  injustice  they  should 
exhibit  their  petitions  in  the  street  on  his  first  entrance  into  the 
city. 

Early  in  the  morning  Isabel  came  to  the  prison,  and  the  duke, 
who  there  awaited  her  coming,  for  secret  reasons  thought  it  good 
to  tell  her  that  Claudio  was  beheaded;  therefore  when  Isabel 
inquired  if  Angelo  had  sent  the  pardon  for  her  brother,  he  said: 

"Angelo  has  released  Claudio  from  this  world.  His  head  is 
off  and  sent  to  the  deputy." 

The  much-grieved  sister  cried  out,  "O  unhappy  Claudio, 
wretched  Isabel,  injurious  world,  most  wicked  Angelo!" 

The  seeming  friar  bid  her  take  comfort,  and  when  she  was  be- 

[240] 


SHAKESPEARE 

come  a  little  calm  he  acquainted  her  with  the  near  prospect  of 
the  duke's  return  and  told  her  in  what  manner  she  should  proceed 
in  preferring  her  complaint  against  Angelo;  and  he  bade  her  not 
fear  if  the  cause  should  seem  to  go  against  her  for  a  while.  Leav- 
ing Isabel  sufficiently  instructed,  he  next  went  to  Mariana  and 
gave  her  counsel  in  what  manner  she  also  should  act. 

Then  the  duke  laid  aside  his  friar's  habit,  and  in  his  own  royal 
robes,  amid  a  joyful  crowd  of  his  faithful  subjects  assembled  to 
greet  his  arrival,  entered  the  city  of  Vienna,  where  he  was  met 
by  Angelo,  who  delivered  up  his  authority  in  the  proper  form. 
And  there  came  Isabel,  in  the  manner  of  a  petitioner  for  redress, 
and  said: 

"Justice,  most  royal  duke!  I  am  the  sister  of  one  Claudio, 
who,  for  the  seducing  a  young  maid,  was  condemned  to  lose  his 
head.  I  made  my  suit  to  lord  Angelo  for  my  brother's  pardon. 
It  were  needless  to  tell  your  Grace  how  I  prayed  and  kneeled, 
how  he  repelled  me,  and  how  I  replied;  for  this  was  of  much 
length.  The  vile  conclusion  I  now  begin  with  grief  and  pain  to 
utter.  Angelo  would  not,  but  by  my  yielding  to  his  dishonorable 
love,  release  my  brother;  and  after  much  debate  within  myself 
my  sisterly  remorse  overcame  my  virtue,  and  I  did  yield  to  him. 
But  the  next  morning  betimes,  Angelo,  forfeiting  his  promise, 
sent  a  warrant  for  my  poor  brother's  head!" 

The  duke  affected  to  disbelieve  her  story;  and  Angelo  said  that 
grief  for  her  brother's  death,  who  had  suffered  by  the  due  course 
of  the  law,  had  disordered  her  senses. 

And  now  another  suitor  approached,  which  was  Mariana;  and 
Mariana  said:  "Noble  prince,  as  there  comes  light  from  heaven 
and  truth  from  breath,  as  there  is  sense  in  truth  and  truth  in 
virtue,  I  am  this  man's  wife,  and,  my  good  lord,  the  words  of 
Isabel  are  false,  for  the  night  she  says  she  was  with  Angelo  I 
passed  that  night  with  him  in  the  garden-house.  As  this  is  true 
let  me  in  safety  rise,  or  else  forever  be  fixed  here  a  marble  monu- 
ment." 

Then  did  Isabel  appeal  for  the  truth  of  what  she  had  said  to 
16  [  24i  1 


TALES    FROM 

Friar  Lodowick,  that  being  the  name  the  duke  had  assumed  in 
his  disguise.  Isabel  and  Mariana  had  both  obeyed  his  instruc- 
tions in  what  they  said,  the  duke  intending  that  the  innocence  of 
Isabel  should  be  plainly  proved  in  that  public  manner  before 
the  whole  city  of  Vienna;  but  Angelo  little  thought  that  it  was 
from  such  a  cause  that  they  thus  differed  in  their  story,  and  he 
hoped  from  their  contradictory  evidence  to  be  able  to  clear  him- 
self from  the  accusation  of  Isabel;  and  he  said,  assuming  the  look 
of  offended  innocence: 

"I  did  but  smile  till  now;  but,  good  my  lord,  my  patience 
here  is  touched,  and  I  perceive  these  poor,  distracted  women  are 
but  the  instruments  of  some  greater  one  who  sets  them  on.  Let 
me  have  way,  my  lord,  to  find  this  practice  out." 

"Aye,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  the  duke,  "and  punish  them  to 
the  height  of  your  pleasure.  You,  Lord  Escalus,  sit  with  Lord 
Angelo,  lend  him  your  pains  to  discover  this  abuse;  the  friar  is 
sent  for  that  set  them  on,  and  when  he  comes  do  with  your  in- 
juries as  may  seem  best  in  any  chastisement.  I  for  a  while  will 
leave  you,  but  stir  not  you,  Lord  Angelo,  till  you  have  well  de- 
termined upon  this  slander."  The  duke  then  went  away,  leaving 
Angelo  well  pleased  to  be  deputed  judge  and  umpire  in  his  own 
cause.  But  the  duke  was  absent  only  while  he  threw  off  his 
royal  robes  and  put  on  his  friar's  habit;  and  in  that  disguise  again 
he  presented  himself  before  Angelo  and  Escalus.  And  the  good 
old  Escalus,  who  thought  Angelo  had  been  falsely  accused,  said 
to  the  supposed  friar,  "Come,  sir,  did  you  set  these  women  on  to 
slander  Lord  Angelo?" 

He  replied:  "Where  is  the  duke?  It  is  he  who  should  hear  me 
speak." 

Escalus  said:  "The  duke  is  in  us,  and  we  will  hear  you.  Speak 
justly." 

"Boldly,  at  least,"  retorted  the  friar;  and  then  he  blamed  the 
duke  for  leaving  the  cause  of  Isabel  in  the  hands  of  him  she  had 
accused,  and  spoke  so  freely  of  many  corrupt  practices  he  had 
observed  while,  as  he  said,  he  had  been  a  looker-on  in  Vienna,  that 

[242] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Escalus  threatened  him  with  the  torture  for  speaking  words 
against  the  state  and  for  censuring  the  conduct  of  the  duke,  and 
ordered  him  to  be  taken  away  to  prison.  Then,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  all  present,  and  to  the  utter  confusion  of  Angelo,  the  sup- 
posed friar  threw  off  his  disguise,  and  they  saw  it  was  the  duke 
himself. 

The  duke  first  addressed  Isabel.  He  said  to  her:  "Come 
hither,  Isabel.  Your  friar  is  now  your  prince,  but  with  my 
habit  I  have  not  changed  my  heart.  I  am  still  devoted  to 
your  service." 

"Oh,  give  me  pardon,"  said  Isabel,  "that  I,  your  vassal,  have 
employed  and  troubled  your  unknown  sovereignty." 

He  answered  that  he  had  most  need  of  forgiveness  from  her 
for  not  having  prevented  the  death  of  her  brother — for  not  yet 
would  he  tell  her  that  Claudio  was  living;  meaning  first  to  make 
a  further  trial  of  her  goodness. 

Angelo  now  knew  the  duke  had  been  a  secret  witness  of  his 
bad  deeds,  and  he  said:  "0  my  dread  lord,  I  should  be  guiltier 
than  my  guiltiness,  to  think  I  can  be  undiscernible,  when  I  per- 
ceive your  Grace,  like  power  divine,  has  looked  upon  my  actions. 
Then,  good  prince,  no  longer  prolong  my  shame,  but  let  my  trial 
be  my  own  confession.  Immediate  sentence  and  death  is  all  the 
grace  I  beg." 

The  duke  replied:  "Angelo,  thy  faults  are  manifest.  We  do 
condemn  thee  to  the  very  block  where  Claudio  stooped  to  death, 
and  with  like  haste  away  with  him;  and  for  his  possessions,  Mari- 
ana, we  do  instate  and  widow  you  withal,  to  buy  you  a  better 
husband." 

"0  my  dear  lord,"  said  Mariana,  "I  crave  no  other,  nor  no 
better  man!"  And  then  on  her  knees,  even  as  Isabel  had  begged 
the  life  of  Claudio,  did  this  kind  wife  of  an  ungrateful  husband 
beg  the  life  of  Angelo;  and  she  said:  "Gentle  my  liege,  0 
good  my  lord!  Sweet  Isabel,  take  my  part!  Lend  me  your 
knees  and  all  my  life  to  come  I  will  lend  you  all  my  life, 
to  do  you  service!" 

1 243] 


TALES    FROM 

The  duke  said:  "Against  all  sense  you  importune  her.  Should 
Isabel  kneel  down  to  beg  for  mercy,  her  brother's  ghost  would 
break  his  paved  bed  and  take  her  hence  in  horror." 

Still  Mariana  said:  "Isabel,  sweet  Isabel,  do  but  kneel  by  me, 
hold  up  your  hand,  say  nothing!  I  will  speak  all.  They  say  besti 
men  are  molded  out  of  faults,  and  for  the  most  part  become  much 
the  better  for  being  a  little  bad.  So  may  my  husband.  0  Isabel! 
will  you  not  lend  a  knee?" 

The  duke  then  said,  "He  dies  for  Claudio."  But  much  pleased 
was  the  good  duke  when  his  own  Isabel,  from  whom  he  expected 
all  gracious  and  honorable  acts,  kneeled  down  before  him,  and 
said:  "Most  bounteous  sir,  look,  if  it  please  you,  on  this  man 
condemned,  as  if  my  brother  lived.  I  partly  think  a  due  sincerity 
governed  his  deeds  till  he  did  look  on  me.  Since  it  is  so,  let  him 
not  die!  My  brother  had  but  justice  in  that  he  did  the  thing  for 
which  he  died." 

The  duke,  as  the  best  reply  he  could  make  to  this  noble  peti- 
tioner for  her  enemy's  life,  sending  for  Claudio  from  his  prison- 
house,  where  he  lay  doubtful  of  his  destiny,  presented  to  her  this 
lamented  brother  living;  and  he  said  to  Isabel:  "Give  me  your 
hand,  Isabel.  For  your  lovely  sake  I  pardon  Claudio.  Say  you 
will  be  mine,  and  he  shall  be  my  brother,  too." 

By  this  time  Lord  Angelo  perceived  he  was  safe;  and  the 
duke,  observing  his  eye  to  brighten  up  a  little,  said: 

"Well,  Angelo,  look  that  you  love  your  wife;  her  worth  has 
obtained  your  pardon.  Joy  to  you,  Mariana!  Love  her,  Angelo! 
I  have  confessed  her  and  know  her  virtue." 

Angelo  remembered,  when  dressed  in  a  little  brief  authority, 
how  hard  his  heart  had  been,  and  felt  how  sweet  is  mercy. 

The  duke  commanded  Claudio  to  marry  Juliet,  and  offered 
himself  again  to  the  acceptance  of  Isabel,  whose  virtuous  and 
noble  conduct  had  won  her  prince's  heart.  Isabel,  not  having 
taken  the  veil,  was  free  to  marry;  and  the  friendly  offices,  while 
hid  under  the  disguise  of  a  humble  friar,  which  the  noble  duke 
had  done  for  her,  made  her  with  grateful  joy  accept  the  honor  he 

[244] 


SHAKESPEARE 

offered  her;  and  when  she  became  Duchess  of  Vienna  the  excellent 
example  of  the  virtuous  Isabel  worked  such  a  complete  reforma- 
tion among  the  young  ladies  of  that  city,  that  from  that  time 
none  ever  fell  into  the  transgression  of  Juliet,  the  repentant  wife 
of  the  reformed  Claudio.  And  the  mercy-loving  duke  long 
reigned  with  his  beloved  Isabel,  the  happiest  of  husbands  and  of 
princes. 


TALES    FROM 


TWELFTH   NIGHT;   OR,  WHAT   YOU   WILL 


SEBASTIAN  and  his  sister  Viola,  a  young 
gentleman  and  lady  of  Messaline,  were 
twins,  and  (which  was  accounted  a  great 
wonder)  from  their  birth  they  so  much 
resembled  each  other  that,  but  for  the 
difference  in  their  dress,  they  could  not 
be  known  apart.  They  were  both  born 
in  one  hour,  and  in  one  hour  they  were 
both  in  danger  of  perishing,  for  they  were 
shipwrecked  on  the  coast  of  Illyria,  as  they  were  making  a  sea- 
voyage  together.  The  ship  on  board  of  which  they  were  split 
on  a  rock  in  a  violent  storm,  and  a  very  small  number  of  the 
ship's  company  escaped  with  their  lives.  The  captain  of  the  vessel, 
with  a  few  of  the  sailors  that  were  saved,  got  to  land  in  a  small 
boat,  and  with  them  they  brought  Viola  safe  on  shore,  where 
she,  poor  lady,  instead  of  rejoicing  at  her  own  deliverance,  began 
to  lament  her  brother's  loss;  but  the  captain  comforted  her  with 
the  assurance  that  he  had  seen  her  brother,  when  the  ship  split, 
fasten  himself  to  a  strong  mast,  on  which,  as  long  as  he  could 
see  anything  of  him  for  the  distance,  he  perceived  him  borne  up 
above  the  waves.  Viola  was  much  consoled  by  the  hope  this 
account  gave  her,  and  now  considered  how  she  was  to  dispose  of 
herself  in  a  strange  country,  so  far  from  home;  and  she  asked  the 
captain  if  he  knew  anything  of  Illyria. 

"Aye,  very  well,  madam,"  replied  the  captain,  "for  I  was 
born  not  three  hours'  travel  from  this  place." 

"Who  governs  here?"  said  Viola.    The  captain  told  her  Illyria 
was  governed  by  Orsino,  a  duke  noble  in  nature  as  well  as  dignity. 

[246  J 


PERCHANCE   HE    IS   NOT   DROWN'D;  WHAT   THINK < 
YOU,  CAPTAIN?" 


SHAKESPEARE 

Viola  said,  she  had  heard  her  father  speak  of  Orsino,  and  that 
he  was  unmarried  then. 

"And  he  is  so  now,"  said  the  captain;  "or  was  so  very  lately, 
for,  but  a  month  ago,  I  went  from  here,  and  then  it  was  the 
general  talk  (as  you  know  what  great  ones  do,  the  people  will 
prattle  of)  that  Orsino  sought  the  love  of  fair  Olivia,  a  virtuous 
maid,  the  daughter  of  a  count  who  died  twelve  months  ago,  leav- 
ing Olivia  to  the  protection  of  her  brother,  who  shortly  after 
died  also;  and  for  the  love  of  this  dear  brother,  they  say,  she  has 
abjured  the  sight  and  company  of  men." 

Viola,  who  was  herself  in  such  a  sad  affliction  for  her  brother's 
loss,  wished  she  could  live  with  this  lady  who  so  tenderly  mourned 
a  brother's  death.  She  asked  the  captain  if  he  could  introduce 
her  to  Olivia,  saying  she  would  willingly  serve  this  lady.  But  he 
replied  this  would  be  a  hard  thing  to  accomplish,  because  the 
Lady  Olivia  would  admit  no  person  into  her  house  since  her 
brother's  death,  not  even  the  duke  himself.  Then  Viola  formed 
another  project  in  her  mind,  which  was,  in  a  man's  habit,  to  serve 
the  Duke  Orsino  as  a  page.  It  was  a  strange  fancy  in  a  young 
lady  to  put  on  male  attire  and  pass  for  a  boy;  but  the  forlorn  and 
unprotected  state  of  Viola,  who  was  young  and  of  uncommon 
beauty,  alone,  and  in  a  foreign  land,  must  plead  her  excuse. 

She  having  observed  a  fair  behavior  in  the  captain,  and  that 
he  showed  a  friendly  concern  for  her  welfare,  intrusted  him  with 
her  design,  and  he  readily  engaged  to  assist  her.  Viola  gave  him 
money  and  directed  him  to  furnish  her  with  suitable  apparel, 
ordering  her  clothes  to  be  made  of  the  same  color  and  in  the  same 
fashion  her  brother  Sebastian  used  to  wear,  and  when  she  was 
dressed  in  her  manly  garb  she  looked  so  exactly  like  her  brother 
that  some  strange  errors  happened  by  means  of  their  being  mis- 
taken for  each  other;  for,  as  will  afterward  appear,  Sebastian 
was  also  saved. 

Viola's  good  friend,  the  captain,  when  he  had  transformed  this 
pretty  lady  into  a  gentleman,  having  some  interest  at  court,  got 
her  presented  to  Orsino  under  the  feigned  name  of  Cesario.   The 

[249] 


TALES    FROM 

duke  was  wonderfully  pleased  with  the  address  and  graceful  de- 
portment of  this  handsome  youth,  and  made  Cesario  one  of  his 
pages,  that  being  the  office  Viola  wished  to  obtain;  and  she  so 
well  fulfilled  the  duties  of  her  new  station,  and  showed  such  a 
ready  observance  and  faithful  attachment  to  her  lord,  that  she 
soon  became  his  most  favored  attendant.  To  Cesario  Orsino 
confided  the  whole  history  of  his  love  for  the  lady  Olivia.  To 
Cesario  he  told  the  long  and  unsuccessful  suit  he  had  made  to 
one  who,  rejecting  his  long  services  and  despising  his  person, 
refused  to  admit  him  to  her  presence;  and  for  the  love  of  this 
lady  who  had  so  unkindly  treated  him  the  noble  Orsino,  forsaking 
the  sports  of  the  field  and  all  manly  exercises  in  which  he  used 
to  delight,  passed  his  hours  in  ignoble  sloth,  listening  to  the 
effeminate  sounds  of  soft  music,  gentle  airs,  and  passionate  love- 
songs;  and  neglecting  the  company  of  the  wise  and  learned  lords 
with  whom  he  used  to  associate,  he  was  now  all  day  long  convers- 
ing with  young  Cesario.  Unmeet  companion  no  doubt  his  grave 
courtiers  thought  Cesario  was  for  their  once  noble  master,  the 
great  Duke  Orsino. 

It  is  a  dangerous  matter  for  young  maidens  to  be  the  confi- 
dantes of  handsome  young  dukes;  which  Viola  too  soon  found,  to 
her  sorrow,  for  all  that  Orsino  told  her  he  endured  for  Olivia 
she  presently  perceived  she  suffered  for  the  love  of  him,  and  much 
it  moved  her  wonder  that  Olivia  could  be  so  regardless  of  this 
her  peerless  lord  and  master,  whom  she  thought  no  one  could 
behold  without  the  deepest  admiration,  and  she  ventured  gently 
to  hint  to  Orsino,  that  it  was  a  pity  he  should  affect  a  lady  who 
was  so  blind  to  his  worthy  qualities;    and  she  said: 

"If  a  lady  were  to  love  you,  my  lord,  as  you  love  Olivia  (and 
perhaps  there  may  be  one  who  does),  if  you  could  not  love  her 
in  return,  would  you  not  tell  her  that  you  could  not  love,  and 
must  she  not  be  content  with  this  answer?" 

But  Orsino  would  not  admit  of  this  reasoning,  for  he  denied 
that  it  was  possible  for  any  woman  to  love  as  he  did.  He  said  no 
woman's  heart  was  big  enough  to  hold  so  much  love,  and  there- 

[250] 


SHAKESPEARE 


fore  it  was  unfair  to  compare  the  love  of  any  lady  for  him  to  his 
love  for  Olivia.  Now,  though  Viola  had  the  utmost  deference 
for  the  duke's  opinions,  she  could  not  help  thinking  this  was  not 
quite  true,  for  she  thought  her  heart  had  full  as  much  love  in 
it  as  Orsino's  had;  and  she 
said: 

"Ah,  but  I  know,  my  lord." 

"What  do  you  know, 
Cesario?"  said  Orsino. 

"Too  well  I  know,"  replied 
Viola,  "what  love  women  may 
owe  to  men.  They  are  as  true 
of  heart  as  we  are.  My  father 
had  a  daughter  loved  a  man, 
as  I  perhaps,  were  I  a  woman, 
should  love  your  lordship." 

"And  what  is  her  history?" 
said  Orsino. 

"A  blank,  my  lord,"  replied 
Viola.  "She  never  told  her 
love,  but  let  concealment,  like 
a  worm  in  the  bud,  feed  on  her 
damask  cheek.  She  pined  in 
thought,  and  with  a  green  and 
yellow  melancholy  she  sat  like 
Patience  on  a  monument,  smil- 
ing at  Grief." 

The  duke  inquired  if  this  lady  died  of  her  love,  but  to  this 
question  Viola  returned  an  evasive  answer;  as  probably  she  had 
feigned  the  story,  to  speak  words  expressive  of  the  secret  love 
and  silent  grief  she  suffered  for  Orsino. 

While  they  were  talking,  a  gentleman  entered  whom  the  duke 
had  sent  to  Olivia,  and  he  said,  "So  please  you,  my  lord,  I  might 
not  be  admitted  to  the  lady,  but  by  her  handmaid  she  returned 
you  this  answer:   Until  seven  years  hence  the  element  itself  shall 

[251] 


TALES    FROM 

not  behold  her  face;    but  like  a  cloistress  she  will  walk  veiled, 
watering  her  chamber  with  her  tears  for  the  sad  remembrance  of    , 
her  dead  brother."  * 

On  hearing  this  the  duke  exclaimed,  "Oh,  she  that  has  a  heart 
of  this  fine  frame,  to  pay  this  debt  of  love  to  a  dead  brother,  how 
will  she  love  when  the  rich  golden  shaft  has  touched  her  heart!" 

And  then  he  said  to  Viola:  "You  know,  Cesario,  I  have  told 
you  all  the  secrets  of  my  heart;  therefore,  good  youth,  go  to 
Olivia's  house.  Be  not  denied  access;  stand  at  her  doors  and  tell 
her  there  your  fixed  foot  shall  grow  till  you  have  audience." 

"And  if  I  do  speak  to  her,  my  lord,  what  then?"  said  Viola. 

"Oh,  then,"  replied  Orsino,  "unfold  to  her  the  passion  of  my 
love.  Make  a  long  discourse  to  her  of  my  dear  faith.  It  will 
well  become  you  to  act  my  woes,  for  she  will  attend  more  to  you 
than  to  one  of  graver  aspect." 

Away  then  went  Viola;  but  not  willingly  did  she  undertake 
this  courtship,  for  she  was  to  woo  a  lady  to  become  a  wife  to 
him  she  wished  to  marry;  but,  having  undertaken  the  affair,  she 
performed  it  with  fidelity,  and  Olivia  soon  heard  that  a  youth 
was  at  her  door  who  insisted  upon  being  admitted  to  her  presence. 

"I  told  him,"  said  the  servant,  "that  you  were  sick.  He  said 
he  knew  you  were,  and  therefore  he  came  to  speak  with  you.  I 
told  him  that  you  were  asleep.  He  seemed  to  have  a  foreknowl- 
edge of  that,  too,  and  said  that  therefore  he  must  speak  with 
you.  What  is  to  be  said  to  him,  lady?  for  he  seems  fortified 
against  all  denial,  and  will  speak  with  you,  whether  you  will 
or  no." 

Olivia,  curious  to  see  who  this  peremptory  messenger  might 
be,  desired  he  might  be  admitted,  and,  throwing  her  veil  over 
her  face,  she  said  she  would  once  more  hear  Orsino's  embassy, 
not  doubting  but  that  he  came  from  the  duke,  by  his  importunity. 
Viola,  entering,  put  on  the  most  manly  air  she  could  assume, 
and,  affecting  the  fine  courtier  language  of  great  men's  pages, 
she  said  to  the  veiled  lady: 

"Most  radiant,  exquisite,  and  matchless  beauty,  I  pray  you 

[252] 


SHAKESPEARE 


tell  me  if  you  are  the  lady  of  the  house;  for  I  should  be  sorry  to 
cast  away  my  speech  upon  another;  for  besides  that  it  is  excel- 
lently well  penned,  I  have  taken  great  pains  to  learn  it." 

"Whence  come  you,  sir?"  said  Olivia. 

"I  can  say  lit- 
tle more  than  I 
have  studied," 
replied  Viola, 
"and  that  ques- 
tion is  out  of  my 
part." 

"Are  you  a 
comedian?"  said 
Olivia. 

"No,"  replied 
Viola;  "and  yet 
I  am  not  that 
which  I  play," 
meaning  that 
she,  being  a 
woman,  feigned 
herself  to  be  a 
man.  And  again 
she  asked  Olivia 
if  she  were  the 
lady  of  the  house. 

Olivia  said  she 
was;  and  then 
Viola,  having 
more  curiosity  to 
see  her  rival's  features  than  haste  to  deliver  her  master's  mes- 
sage, said,  "Good  madam,  let  me  see  your  face."  With  this  bold 
request  Olivia  was  not  averse  to  comply;  for  this  haughty  beauty, 
whom  the  Duke  Orsino  had  loved  so  long  in  vain,  at  first  sight 
conceived  a  passion  for  the  supposed  page,  the  humble  Cesario. 

[253] 


TALES    FROM 

When  Viola  asked  to  see  her  face,  Olivia  said,  "Have  you 
any  commission  from  your  lord  and  master  to  negotiate 
with  my  face?"  And  then,  forgetting  her  determination  to 
go  veiled  for  seven  long  years,  she  drew  aside  her  veil,  saying: 
"But  I  will  draw  the  curtain  and  show  the  picture.  Is  it  not 
well  done?" 

Viola  replied:  "It  is  beauty  truly  mixed;  the  red  and  white 
upon  your  cheeks  is  by  Nature's  own  cunning  hand  laid  on. 
You  are  the  most  cruel  lady  living  if  you  lead  these  graces  to  the 
grave  and  leave  the  world  no  copy." 

"Oh,  sir,"  replied  Olivia,  "I  will  not  be  so  cruel.  The  world 
may  have  an  inventory  of  my  beauty.  As,  item,  two  lips,  indif- 
ferent red;  item,  two  gray  eyes  with  lids  to  them;  one  neck;  one 
chin;  and  so  forth.    Were  you  sent  here  to  praise  me?" 

Viola  replied,  "I  see  what  you  are:  you  are  too  proud,  but  you 
are  fair.  My  lord  and  master  loves  you.  Oh,  such  a  love  could 
but  be  recompensed  though  you  were  crowned  the  queen  of 
beauty;  for  Orsino  loves  you  with  adoration  and  with  tears, 
with  groans  that  thunder  love,  and  sighs  of  fire." 

"Your  lord,"  said  Olivia,  "knows  well  my  mind.  I  cannot  love 
him;  yet  I  doubt  not  he  is  virtuous;  I  know  him  to  be  noble 
and  of  high  estate,  of  fresh  and  spotless  youth.  All  voices  pro- 
claim him  learned,  courteous,  and  valiant;  yet  I  cannot  love 
him.     He  might  have  taken  his  answer  long  ago." 

"If  I  did  love  you  as  my  master  does,"  said  Viola,  "I  would 
make  me  a  willow  cabin  at  your  gates,  and  call  upon  your  name. 
I  would  write  complaining  sonnets  on  Olivia,  and  sing  them  in  the 
dead  of  the  night.  Your  name  should  sound  among  the  hills,  and 
I  would  make  Echo,  the  babbling  gossip  of  the  air,  cry  out 
Olivia.  Oh,  you  should  not  rest  between  the  elements  of  earth 
and  air,  but  you  should  pity  me." 

"You  might  do  much,"  said  Olivia.  "What  is  your  parentage?" 

Viola  replied:  "Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well.  I 
am  a  gentleman." 

Olivia  now  reluctantly  dismissed  Viola,  saying:    "Go  to  your 

[254] 


SHAKESPEARE 

master  and  tell  him  I  cannot  love  him.    Let  him  send  no  more, 
unless  perchance  you  come  again  to  tell  me  how  he  takes  it." 

And  Viola  departed,  bidding  the  lady  farewell  by  the  name  of 
Fair  Cruelty.  When  she  was  gone  Olivia  repeated  the  words, 
Above  my  fortunes,  yet  my  state  is  well.  I  am  a  gentleman.  And 
she  said  aloud,  "I  will  be  sworn  he  is;  his  tongue,  his  face,  his 
limbs,  action,  and  spirit  plainly  show  he  is  a  gentleman."  And 
then  she  wished  Cesario  was  the  duke;  and,  perceiving  the  fast 
hold  he  had  taken  on  her  affections,  she  blamed  herself  for  her 
sudden  love;  but  the  gentle  blame  which  people  lay  upon  their 
own  faults  has  no  deep  root,  and  presently  the  noble  lady  Olivia  so 
far  forgot  the  inequality  between  her  fortunes  and  those  of  this 
seeming  page,  as  well  as  the  maidenly  reserve  which  is  the  chief 
ornament  of  a  lady's  character,  that  she  resolved  to  court  the 
love  of  young  Cesario,  and  sent  a  servant  after  him  with  a  dia- 
mond ring,  under  the  pretense  that  he  had  left  it  with  her  as  a 
present  from  Orsino.  She  hoped  by  thus  artfully  making  Cesario 
a  present  of  the  ring  she  should  give  him  some  intimation  of  her 
design;  and  truly  it  did  make  Viola  suspect;  for,  knowing  that 
Orsino  had  sent  no  ring  by  her,  she  began  to  recollect  that  Olivia's 
looks  and  manner  were  expressive  of  admiration,  and  she  presently  . 
guessed  her  master's  mistress  had  fallen  in  love  with  her. 

"Alas!"  said  she,  "the  poor  lady  might  as  well  love  a  dream.^y> 
Disguise  I  see  is  wicked,  for  it  has  caused  Olivia  to  breathe  as 
fruitless  sighs  for  me  as  I  do  for  Orsino." 

Viola  returned  to  Orsino's  palace,  and  related  to  her  lord  the 
ill  success  of  the  negotiation,  repeating  the  command  of  Olivia 
that  the  duke  should  trouble  her  no  more.  Yet  still  the  duke 
persisted  in  hoping  that  the  gentle  Cesario  would  in  time  be  able 
to  persuade  her  to  show  some  pity,  and  therefore  he  bade  him 
he  should  go  to  her  again  the  next  day.  In  the  mean  time,  to  pass 
away  the  tedious  interval,  he  commanded  a  song  which  he  loved 
to  be  sung;    and  he  said: 

"My  good  Cesario,  when  I  heard  that  song  last  night,  me- 
thought  it  did  relieve  my  passion  much.    Mark  it,  Cesario,  it  is 

[255] 


TALES    FROM 

old  and  plain.  The  spinsters  and  the  knitters  when  they  sit  in 
the  sun,  and  the  young  maids  that  weave  their  thread  with  bone, 
chant  this  song.  It  is  silly,  yet  I  love  it,  for  it  tells  of  the  inno- 
cence of  love  in  the  old  times." 

SONG 

Come  away,  come  away,  Death, 

And  in  sad  cypress  let  me  be  laid; 
Fly  away,  fly  away,  breath, 

I  am  slain  by  a  fair  cruel  maid. 
My  shroud  of  white  stuck  all  with  yew,  0  prepare  it! 
My  part  of  death  no  one  so  true  did  share  it. 
Not  a  flower,  not  a  flower  sweet, 

On  my  black  coffin  let  there  be  strewn: 
Not  a  friend,  not  a  friend  greet 

My  poor  corpse,  where  my  bones  shall  be  thrown. 
A  thousand  thousand  sighs  to  save,  lay  me  O  where 
Sad  true  lover  never  find  my  grave,  to  weep  there! 

Viola  did  not  fail  to  mark  the  words  of  the  old  song,  which 
in  such  true  simplicity  described  the  pangs  of  unrequited  love,  and 
she  bore  testimony  in  her  countenance  of  feeling  what  the  song 
expressed.  Her  sad  looks  were  observed  by  Orsino,  who  said  to 
her: 

"My  life  upon  it,  Cesario,  though  you  are  so  young,  your  eye 
has  looked  upon  some  face  that  it  loves.    Has  it  not,  boy?" 

"A  little,  with  your  leave,"  replied  Viola. 

"And  what  kind  of  woman,  and  of  what  age  is  she?"  said 
Orsino. 

"Of  your  age  and  of  your  complexion,  my  lord,"  said  Viola; 
which  made  the  duke  smile  to  hear  this  fair  young  boy  loved  a 
woman  so  much  older  than  himself  and  of  a  man's  dark  com- 
plexion; but  Viola  secretly  meant  Orsino,  and  not  a  woman  like 
him. 

When  Viola  made  her  second  visit  to  Olivia  she  found  no  diffi- 
culty in  gaining  access  to  her.  Servants  soon  discover  when 
their  ladies  delight  to  converse  with  handsome  young  messengers; 
and  the  instant  Viola  arrived  the  gates  were  thrown  wide  open, 

[256] 


SHAKESPEARE 

and  the  duke's  page  was  shown  into  Olivia's  apartment  with  great 
respect.  And  when  Viola  told  Olivia  that  she  was  come  once 
more  to  plead  in  her  lord's  behalf,  this  lady  said: 


"I  desired  you  never  to  speak  of  him  again;  but  if  you  would 
undertake  another  suit,  I  had  rather  hear  you  solicit,  than  music 
from  the  spheres." 

This  was  pretty  plain  speaking,  but  Olivia  soon  explained 
17  [257] 


TALES    FROM 

herself  still  more  plainly,  and  openly  confessed  her  love;  and 
when  she  saw  displeasure  with  perplexity  expressed  in  Viola's 
face,  she  said:  "Oh,  what  a  deal  of  scorn  looks  beautiful  in  the 
contempt  and  anger  of  his  lip !  Cesario,  by  the  roses  of  the  spring, 
by  maidhood,  honor,  and  by  truth,  I  love  you  so  that,  in  spite 
of  your  pride,  I  have  neither  wit  nor  reason  to  conceal  my  passion." 

But  in  vain  the  lady  wooed.  Viola  hastened  from  her  pres- 
ence, threatening  never  more  to  come  to  plead  Orsino's  love; 
and  all  the  reply  she  made  to  Olivia's  fond  solicitation  was,  a 
declaration  of  a  resolution  Never  to  love  any  woman. 

No  sooner  had  Viola  left  the  lady  than  a  claim  was  made  upon 
her  valor.  A  gentleman,  a  rejected  suitor  of  Olivia,  who  had 
learned  how  that  lady  had  favored  the  duke's  messenger,  chal- 
lenged him  to  fight  a  duel.  What  should  poor  Viola  do,  who, 
though  she  carried  a  man-like  outside,  had  a  true  woman's  heart 
and  feared  to  look  on  her  own  sword? 

When  she  saw  her  formidable  rival  advancing  toward  her  with 
his  sword  drawn  she  began  to  think  of  confessing  that  she  was  a 
woman;  but  she  was  relieved  at  once  from  her  terror,  and  the 
shame  of  such  a  discovery,  by  a  stranger  that  was  passing  by, 
who  made  up  to  them,  and  as  if  he  had  been  long  known  to  her 
and  were  her  dearest  friend  said  to  her  opponent: 

"If  this  young  gentleman  has  done  offense,  I  will  take  the  fault 
on  me;   and  if  you  offend  him,  I  will  for  his  sake  defy  you." 

Before  Viola  had  time  to  thank  him  for  his  protection,  or  to 
inquire  the  reason  of  his  kind  interference,  her  new  friend  met  with 
an  enemy  where  his  bravery  was  of  no  use  to  him;  for  the  officers 
of  justice  coming  up  in  that  instant,  apprehended  the  stranger 
in  the  duke's  name,  to  answer  for  an  offense  he  had  committed 
some  years  before;  and  he  said  to  Viola: 

"This  comes  with  seeking  you."  And  then  he  asked  her  for  a 
purse,  saying:  "Now  my  necessity  makes  me  ask  for  my  purse, 
and  it  grieves  me  much  more  for  what  I  cannot  do  for  you  than 
Cor  what  befalls  myself.    You  stand  amazed,  but  be  of  comfort." 

His  words  did  indeed  amaze  Viola,  and  she  protested  she  knew 

[258] 


SHAKESPEARE 

him  not,  nor  had  ever  received  a  purse  from  him;  but  for  the 
kindness  he  had  just  shown  her  she  offered  him  a  small  sum  of 
money,  being  nearly  the  whole  she  possessed.  And  now  the 
stranger  spoke  severe  things,  charging  her  with  ingratitude  and 
unkindness.    He  said: 

"This  youth  whom  you  see  here  I  snatched  from  the  jaws  of 
death,  and  for  his  sake  alone  I  came  to  Illyria  and  have  fallen 
into  this  danger." 

But  the  officers  cared  little  for  harkening  to  the  complaints  of 
their  prisoner,  and  they  hurried  him  off,  saying,  "What  is  that 
to  us?"  And  as  he  was  carried  away,  he  called  Viola  by  the 
name  of  Sebastian,  reproaching  the  supposed  Sebastian  for  dis- 
owning his  friend,  as  long  as  he  was  within  hearing.  When 
Viola  heard  herself  called  Sebastian,  though  the  stranger  was 
taken  away  too  hastily  for  her  to  ask  an  explanation,  she  con- 
jectured that  this  seeming  mystery  might  arise  from  her  being 
mistaken  for  her  brother,  and  she  began  to  cherish  hopes  that  it 
was  her  brother  whose  life  this  man  said  he  had  preserved.  And 
so  indeed  it  was.  The  stranger,  whose  name  was  Antonio,  was  a 
sea-captain.  He  had  taken  Sebastian  up  into  his  ship  when, 
almost  exhausted  with  fatigue,  he  was  floating  on  the  mast  to 
which  he  had  fastened  himself  in  the  storm.  Antonio  conceived 
such  a  friendship  for  Sebastian  that  he  resolved  to  accompany 
him  whithersoever  he  went;  and  when  the  youth  expressed  a 
curiosity  to  visit  Orsino's  court,  Antonio,  rather  than  part  from 
him,  came  to  Illyria,  though  he  knew,  if  his  person  should  be 
known  there,  his  life  would  be  in  danger,  because  in  a  sea-fight 
he  had  once  dangerously  wounded  the  Duke  Orsino's  nephew. 
This  was  the  offense  for  which  he  was  now  made  a  prisoner. 

Antonio  and  Sebastian  had  landed  together  but  a  few  hours 
before  Antonio  met  Viola.  He  had  given  his  purse  to  Sebastian, 
desiring  him  to  use  it  freely  if  he  saw  anything  he  wished  to  pur- 
chase, telling  him  he  would  wait  at  the  inn  while  Sebastian  went 
to  view  the  town;  but,  Sebastian  not  returning  at  the  time 
appointed,   Antonio   had    ventured   out   to   look   for   him,    and, 

[259] 


TALES    FROM 

Viola  being  dressed  the  same,  and  in  face  so  exactly  resembling 
her  brother,  Antonio  drew  his  sword  (as  he  thought)  in  defense 
of  the  youth  he  had  saved,  and  when  Sebastian  (as  he  supposed) 
disowned  him  and  denied  him  his  own  purse,  no  wonder  he  ac- 
cused him  of  ingratitude. 

Viola,  when  Antonio  was  gone,  fearing  a  second  invitation  to 
fight,  slunk  home  as  fast  as  she  could.  She  had  not  been  long  gone 
when  her  adversary  thought  he  saw  her  return;  but  it  was  her 
brother  Sebastian  who  happened  to  arrive  at  this  place,  and  he 
said: 

"Now,  sir,  have  I  met  with  you  again.  There's  for  you,"  and 
struck  him  a  blow. 

Sebastian  was  no  coward;  he  returned  the  blow  with  interest, 
and  drew  his  sword. 

A  lady  now  put  a  stop  to  this  duel,  for  Olivia  came  out  of  the 
house,  and,  she  too  mistaking  Sebastian  for  Cesario,  invited  him 
to  come  into  her  house,  expressing  much  sorrow  at  the  rude  attack 
he  had  met  with.  Though  Sebastian  was  as  much  surprised  at 
the  courtesy  of  this  lady  as  at  the  rudeness  of  his  unknown  foe, 
yet  he  went  very  willingly  into  the  house,  and  Olivia  was  de- 
lighted to  find  Cesario  (as  she  thought  him)  become  more  sensible 
of  her  attentions;  for,  though  their  features  were  exactly  the  same, 
there  was  none  of  the  contempt  and  anger  to  be  seen  in  his  face 
which  she  had  complained  of  when  she  told  her  love  to  Cesario. 

Sebastian  did  not  at  all  object  to  the  fondness  the  lady  lavished 
on  him.  He  seemed  to  take  it  in  very  good  part,  yet  he  wondered 
how  it  had  come  to  pass,  and  he  was  rather  inclined  to  think  Olivia 
was  not  in  her  right  senses;  but,  perceiving  that  she  was  mistress 
of  a  fine  house  and  that  she  ordered  her  affairs  and  seemed  to 
govern  her  family  discreetly,  and  that  in  all  but  her  sudden  love 
for  him  she  appeared  in  the  full  possession  of  her  reason,  he  well 
approved  of  the  courtship;  and  Olivia,  finding  Cesario  in  this  good 
humor,  and  fearing  he  might  change  his  mind,  proposed  that, 
as  she  had  a  priest  in  the  house,  they  should  be  instantly  married. 
Sebastian   assented  to  this  proposal;  and  when  the  marriage 

[260] 


SHAKESPEARE 

ceremony  was  over  he  left  his  lady  for  a  short  time,  intending 
to  go  and  tell  his  friend  Antonio  the  good  fortune  that  he  had 
met  with.  In  the  mean  time  Orsino  came  to  visit  Olivia,  and  at 
the  moment  he  arrived  before  Olivia's  house  the  officers  of  justice 
brought  their  prisoner,  Antonio,  before  the  duke.  Viola  was  with 
Orsino,  her  master;  and  when  Antonio  saw  Viola,  whom  he  still 
imagined  to  be  Sebastian,  he  told  the  duke  in  what  manner  he  had 
rescued  this  youth  from  the  perils  of  the  sea;  and  after  fully 
relating  all  the  kindness  he  had  really  shown  to  Sebastian,  he 
ended  his  complaint  with  saying  that  for  three  months,  both  day 
and  night,  this  ungrateful  youth  had  been  with  him.  But  now, 
the  Lady  Olivia  coming  forth  from  her  house,  the  duke  could 
no  longer  attend  to  Antonio's  story;  and  he  said: 

"Here  comes  the  countess.  Now  Heaven  walks  on  earth! 
but  for  thee,  fellow,  thy  words  are  madness.  Three  months  has 
this  youth  attended  on  me."  And  then  he  ordered  Antonio  to 
be  taken  aside.  But  Orsino's  heavenly  countess  soon  gave  the 
duke  cause  to  accuse  Cesario  as  much  of  ingratitude  as  Antonio 
had  done,  for  all  the  words  he  could  hear  Olivia  speak  were  words 
of  kindness  to  Cesario;  and  when  he  found  his  page  had  obtained 
this  high  place  in  Olivia's  favor  he  threatened  him  with  all  the 
terrors  of  his  just  revenge;  and  as  he  was  going  to  depart  he 
called  Viola  to  follow  him,  saying:  "Come,  boy,  with  me.  My 
thoughts  are  ripe  for  mischief."  Though  it  seemed  in  his  jealous 
rage  he  was  going  to  doom  Viola  to  instant  death,  yet  her  love 
made  her  no  longer  a  coward,  and  she  said  she  would  most  joy- 
fully suffer  death  to  give  her  master  ease. 

But  Olivia  would  not  so  lose  her  husband,  and  she  cried, 
"Where  goes  my  Cesario?" 

Viola  replied,  "After  him  I  love  more  than  my  life." 

Olivia,  however,  prevented  their  departure  by  loudly  pro- 
claiming that  Cesario  was  her  husband,  and  sent  for  the  priest, 
who  declared  that  not  two  hours  had  passed  since  he  had  married 
the  Lady  Olivia  to  this  young  man.  In  vain  Viola  protested  she 
was  not  married  to  Olivia.     The  evidence  of  that  lady  and  the 

r  261  1 


TALES    FROM 

priest  made  Orsino  believe  that  his  page  had  robbed  him  of 
the  treasure  he  prized  above  his  life.  But  thinking  that  it  was 
past  recall,  he  was  bidding  farewell  to  his  faithless  mistress,  and 
the  young  dissembler,  her  husband,  as  he  called  Viola,  warning 
her  never  to  come  in  his  sight  again,  when  (as  it  seemed  to  them) 
a  miracle  appeared!  for  another  Cesario  entered,  and  addressed 
Olivia  as  his  wife.  This  new  Cesario  was  Sebastian,  the  real 
husband  of  Olivia;  and  when  their  wonder  had  a  little  ceased  at 
seeing  two  persons  with  the  same  face,  the  same  voice,  and  the 
same  habit,  the  brother  and  sister  began  to  question  each  other; 
for  Viola  could  scarce  be  persuaded  that  her  brother  was  living, 
and  Sebastian  knew  not  how  to  account  for  the  sister  he  supposed 
drowned  being  found  in  the  habit  of  a  young  man.  But  Viola 
presently  acknowledged  that  she  was  indeed  Viola,  and  his 
sister,  under  that  disguise. 

When  all  the  errors  were  cleared  up  which  the  extreme  likeness 
between  this  brother  and  sister  had  occasioned,  they  laughed  at 
the  Lady  Olivia  for  the  pleasant  mistake  she  had  made  in  falling 
in  love  with  a  woman;  and  Olivia  showed  no  dislike  to  her  ex- 
change, when  she  found  she  had  wedded  the  brother  instead  of 
the  sister. 

The  hopes  of  Orsino  were  forever  at  an  end  by  this  marriage 
of  Olivia,  and  with  his  hopes,  all  his  fruitless  love  seemed  to  vanish 
away,  and  all  his  thoughts  were  fixed  on  the  event  of  his  favorite, 
young  Cesario,  being  changed  into  a  fair  lady.  He  viewed  Viola 
with  great  attention,  and  he  remembered  how  very  handsome  he 
had  always  thought  Cesario  was,  and  he  concluded  she  would 
look  very  beautiful  in  a  woman's  attire;  and  then  he  remembered 
how  often  she  had  said  she  loved  him,  which  at  the  time  seemed 
only  the  dutiful  expressions  of  a  faithful  page;  but  now  he 
guessed  that  something  more  was  meant,  for  many  of  her  pretty 
sayings,  which  were  like  riddles  to  him,  came  now  into  his  mind, 
and  he  no  sooner  remembered  all  these  things  than  he  resolved 
to  make  Viola  his  wife;  and  he  said  to  her  (he  still  could  not  help 
calling  her  Cesario  and  boy) : 

[262I 


SHAKESPEARE 

"Boy,  you  have  said  to  me  a  thousand  times  that  you  should 
never  love  a  woman  like  to  me,  and  for  the  faithful  service  you 
have  done  for  me  so  much  beneath  your  soft  and  tender  breeding, 
and  since  you  have  called  me  master  so  long,  you  shall  now  be 
your  master's  mistress,  and  Orsino's  true  duchess." 

Olivia,  perceiving  Orsino  was  making  over  that  heart,  which 
she  had  so  ungraciously  rejected,  to  Viola,  invited  them  to  enter 
her  house  and  offered  the  assistance  of  the  good  priest  who  had 
married  her  to  Sebastian  in  the  morning  to  perform  the  same 
ceremony  in  the  remaining  part  of  the  day  for  Orsino  and  Viola. 
Thus  the  twin  brother  and  sister  were  both  wedded  on  the  same 
day,  the  storm  and  shipwreck  which  had  separated  them  being 
the  means  of  bringing  to  pass  their  high  and  mighty  fortunes. 
Viola  was  the  wife  of  Orsino,  the  Duke  of  Illyria,  and  Sebastian 
the  husband  of  the  rich  and  noble  countess,  the  Lady  Olivia. 


TALES    FROM 


TIMON  OF  ATHENS 


[IMON,  a  lord  of  Athens,  in  the  enjoy- 
ment of  a  princely  fortune,  affected  a 
humor  of  liberality  which  knew  no  limits. 
His  almost  infinite  wealth  could  not  flow 
in  so  fast  but  he  poured  it  out  faster 
upon  all  sorts  and  degrees  of  people. 
Not  the  poor  only  tasted  of  his  bounty, 
but  great  lords  did  not  disdain  to  rank 
themselves  among  his  dependents  and 
followers.  His  table  was  resorted  to  by  all  the  luxurious  feasters, 
and  his  house  was  open  to  all  comers  and  goers  at  Athens.  His 
large  wealth  combined  with  his  free  and  prodigal  nature  to  subdue 
all  hearts  to  his  love;  men  of  all  minds  and  dispositions  tendered 
their  services  to  Lord  Timon,  from  the  glass-faced  flatterer  whose 
face  reflects  as  in  a  mirror  the  present  humor  of  his  patron,  to 
the  rough  and  unbending  cynic  who,  affecting  a  contempt  of 
men's  persons  and  an  indifference  to  worldly  things,  yet  could 
not  stand  out  against  the  gracious  manners  and  munificent  soul 
of  Lord  Timon,  but  would  come  (against  his  nature)  to  partake  of 
his  royal  entertainments  and  return  most  rich  in  his  own  estima- 
tion if  he  had  received  a  nod  or  a  salutation  from  Timon. 

If  a  poet  had  composed  a  work  which  wanted  a  recommenda- 
tory introduction  to  the  world,  he  had  no  more  to  do  but  to 
dedicate  it  to  Lord  Timon,  and  the  poem  was  sure  of  sale,  besides 
a  present  purse  from  the  patron,  and  daily  access  to  his  house  and 
table.  If  a  painter  had  a  picture  to  dispose  of  he  had  only  to 
take  it  to  Lord  Timon  and  pretend  to  consult  his  taste  as  to  the 
merits  of  it;  nothing  more  was  wanting  to  persuade  the  liberal- 
hearted  lord  to  buy  it.     If  a  jeweler  had  a  stone  of  price,  or  a 

[264] 


SHAKESPEARE 

mercer  rich,  costly  stuffs,  which  for  their  costliness  lay  upon  his 
hands,  Lord  Timon's  house  was  a  ready  mart  always  open,  where 
they  might  get  off  their  wares  or  their  jewelry  at  any  price,  and 
the  good-natured  lord  would  thank  them  into  the  bargain,  as  if 
they  had  done  him  a  piece  of  courtesy  in  letting  him  have  the 
refusal  of  such  precious  commodities.  So  that  by  this  means  his 
house  was  thronged  with  superfluous  purchases,  of  no  use  but  to 
swell  uneasy  and  ostentatious  pomp;  and  his  person  was  still 
more  inconveniently  beset  with  a  crowd  of  these  idle  visitors, 
lying  poets,  painters,  sharking  tradesmen,  lords,  ladies,  needy 
courtiers,  and  expectants,  who  continually  filled  his  lobbies,  rain- 
ing their  fulsome  flatteries  in  whispers  in  his  ears,  sacrificing  to 
him  with  adulation  as  to  a  God,  making  sacred  the  very  stirrup 
by  which  he  mounted  his  horse,  and  seeming  as  though  they 
drank  the  free  air  but  through  his  permission  and  bounty. 

Some  of  these  daily  dependents  were  young  men  of  birth  who 
(their  means  not  answering  to  their  extravagance)  had  been  put 
in  prison  by  creditors  and  redeemed  thence  by  Lord  Timon; 
tjhese  young  prodigals  thenceforward  fastened  upon  his  lordship, 
sejs  if  by  common  sympathy  he  were  necessarily  endeared  to  all 
such  spendthrifts  and  loose  livers,  who,  not  being  able  to  follow 
him  in  his  wealth,  found  it  easier  to  copy  him  in  prodigality  and 
copious  spending  of  what  was  their  own.  One  of  these  flesh-flies 
was  Ventidius,  for  whose  debts,  unjustly  contracted,  Timon  but 
lately  had  paid  down  the  sum  of  five  talents. 

But  among  this  confluence,  this  great  flood  of  visitors,  none 
were  more  conspicuous  than  the  makers  of  presents  and  givers  of 
gifts.  It  was  fortunate  for  these  men  if  Timon  took  a  fancy  to  a 
dog  or  a  horse,  or  any  piece  of  cheap  furniture  which  was  theirs. 
The  thing  so  praised,  whatever  it  was,  was  sure  to  be  sent  the 
next  morning  with  the  compliments  of  the  giver  for  Lord  Timon's 
acceptance,  and  apologies  for  the  unworthiness  of  the  gift;  and 
this  dog  or  horse,  or  whatever  it  might  be,  did  not  fail  to  produce 
from  Timon's  bounty,  who  would  not  be  outdone  in  gifts,  per- 
haps twenty  dogs  or  horses,  certainly  presents  of  far  richer  worth, 

I  265] 


TALES    FROM 

as  these  pretended  donors  knew  well  enough,  and  that  their 
false  presents  were  but  the  putting  out  of  so  much  money  at 
large  and  speedy  interest.  In  this  way  Lord  Lucius  had  lately 
sent  to  Timon  a  present  of  four  milk-white  horses,  trapped  in 
silver,  which  this  cunning  lord  had  observed  Timon  upon  some 
occasion  to  commend;  and  another  lord,  Lucullus,  had  bestowed 
upon  him  in  the  same  pretended  way  of  free  gift  a  brace  of  grey- 
hounds whose  make  and  fleetness  Timon  had  been  heard  to 
admire;  these  presents  the  easy-hearted  lord  accepted  without 
suspicion  of  the  dishonest  views  of  the  presenters;  and  the 
givers  of  course  were  rewarded  with  some  rich  return,  a  diamond 
or  some  jewel  of  twenty  times  the  value  of  their  false  and  mer- 
cenary donation. 

Sometimes  these  creatures  would  go  to  work  in  a  more  direct 
way,  and  with  gross  and  palpable  artifice,  which  yet  the  credulous 
Timon  was  too  blind  to  see,  would  affect  to  admire  and  praise 
something  that  Timon  possessed,  a  bargain  that  he  had  bought, 
or  some  late  purchase,  which  was  sure  to  draw  from  this  yielding 
and  soft-hearted  lord  a  gift  of  the  thing  commended,  for  no  ser- 
vice in  the  world  done  for  it  but  the  easy  expense  of  a  little  cheap 
and  obvious  flattery.  In  this  way  Timon  but  the  other  day  ha^ 
given  to  one  of  these  mean  lords  the  bay  courser  which  he  I  im- 
self  rode  upon,  because  his  lordship  had  been  pleased  to  say  that 
it  was  a  handsome  beast  and  went  well;  and  Timon  knew  that 
no  man  ever  justly  praised  what  he  did  not  wish  to  possess.  For 
Lord  Timon  weighed  his  friends'  affection  with  his  own,  and  so 
fond  was  he  of  bestowing,  that  he  could  have  dealt  kingdoms  to 
these  supposed  friends  and  never  have  been  weary. 

Not  that  Timon's  wealth  all  went  to  enrich  these  wicked  flat- 
terers; he  could  do  noble  and  praiseworthy  actions;  and  when  a 
servant  of  his  once  loved  the  daughter  of  a  rich  Athenian,  but 
could  not  hope  to  obtain  her  by  reason  that  in  wealth  and  rank 
the  maid  was  so  far  above  him,  Lord  Timon  freely  bestowed  upon 
his  servant  three  Athenian  talents,  to  make  his  fortune  equal 
with  the  dowry  which  the  father  of  the  young  maid  demanded 

J  266] 


SHAKESPEARE 

of  him  who  should  be  her  husband.  But  for  the  most  part, 
knaves  and  parasites  had  the  command  of  his  fortune,  false 
friends  whom  he  did  not  know  to  be  such,  but,  because  they 
flocked  around  his  person,  he  thought  they  must  needs  love  him; 
and  because  they  smiled  and  flattered  him,  he  thought  surely 
that  his  conduct  was  approved  by  all  the  wise  and  good.  And 
when  he  was  feasting  in  the  midst  of  all  these  flatterers  and  mock 
friends,  when  they  were  eating  him  up  and  draining  his  fortunes 
dry  with  large  draughts  of  richest  wines  drunk  to  his  health  and 
prosperity,  he  could  not  perceive  the  difference  of  a  friend  from 
a  flatterer,  but  to  his  deluded  eyes  (made  proud  with  the  sight) 
it  seemed  a  precious  comfort  to  have  so  many  like  brothers  com- 
manding one  another's  fortunes  (though  it  was  his  own  fortune 
which  paid  all  the  costs),  and  with  joy  they  would  run  over  at  the 
spectacle  of  such,  as  it  appeared  to  him,  truly  festive  and  fraternal 
meeting. 

But  while  he  thus  outwent  the  very  heart  of  kindness,  and 
poured  out  his  bounty,  as  if  Plutus,  the  god  of  gold,  had  been 
but  his  steward;  while  thus  he  proceeded  without  care  or  stop,  so 
senseless  of  expense  that  he  would  neither  inquire  how  he  could 
maintain  it  nor  cease  his  wild  flow  of  riot — his  riches,  which  were 
not  infinite,  must  needs  melt  away  before  a  prodigality  which 
knew  no  limits.  But  who  should  tell  him  so?  His  flatterers? 
They  had  an  interest  in  shutting  his  eyes.  In  vain  did  his  honest 
steward  Flavius  try  to  represent  to  him  his  condition,  laying  his 
accounts  before  him,  begging  of  him,  praying  of  him,  with  an 
importunity  that  on  any  other  occasion  would  have  been  un- 
mannerly in  a  servant,  beseeching  him  with  tears  to  look  into 
the  state  of  his  affairs.  Timon  would  still  put  him  off,  and  turn 
the  discourse  to  something  else;  for  nothing  is  so  deaf  to  remon- 
strance as  riches  turned  to  poverty,  nothing  is  so  unwilling  to 
believe  its  situation,  nothing  so  incredulous  to  its  own  true 
state,  and  hard  to  give  credit  to  a  reverse.  Often  had  this 
good  steward,  this  honest  creature,  when  all  the  rooms  of 
Timon's  great  house  had  been  choked  up  with  riotous  feeders 

[267] 


TALES    FROM 

at  his  master's  cost,  when  the  floors  have  wept  with  drunken 
spilling  of  wine,  and  every  apartment  has  blazed  with  lights  and 
resounded  with  music  and  feasting,  often  had  he  retired  by  him- 
self to  some  solitary  spot,  and  wept  faster  than  the  wine  ran 
from  the  wasteful  casks  within,  to  see  the  mad  bounty  of  his 
lord,  and  to  think,  when  the  means  were  gone  which  brought  him 
praises  from  all  sorts  of  people,  how  quickly  the  breath  would 
be  gone  of  which  the  praise  was  made;  praises  won  in  feasting 
would  be  lost  in  fasting,  and  at  one  cloud  of  winter-showers  these 
flies  would  disappear. 

But  now  the  time  was  come  that  Timon  could  shut  his  ears 
no  longer  to  the  representations  of  this  faithful  steward.  Money 
must  be  had;  and  when  he  ordered  Flavius  to  sell  some  of  his 
land  for  that  purpose,  Flavius  informed  him,  what  he  had  in  vain 
endeavored  at  several  times  before  to  make  him  listen  to,  that 
most  of  his  land  was  already  sold  or  forfeited,  and  that  all  he 
possessed  at  present  was  not  enough  to  pay  the  one-half  of  what 
he  owed.  Struck  with  wonder  at  this  presentation,  Timon  hastily 
replied : 

"My  lands  extend  from  Athens  to  Lacedaemon." 

"O  my  good  lord,"  said  Flavius,  "the  world  is  but  a  world,  and 
has  bounds.  Were  it  all  yours  to  give  in  a  breath,  how  quickly 
were  it  gone!" 

Timon  consoled  himself  that  no  villainous  bounty  had  yet 
come  from  him,  that  if  he  had  given  his  wealth  away  unwisely,  it 
had  not  been  bestowed  to  feed  his  vices,  but  to  cherish  his  friends; 
and  he  bade  the  kind-hearted  steward  (who  was  weeping)  to  take 
comfort  in  the  assurance  that  his  master  could  never  lack  means 
while  he  had  so  many  noble  friends;  and  this  infatuated  lord  per- 
suaded himself  that  he  had  nothing  to  do  but  to  send  and  borrow, 
to  use  every  man's  fortune  (that  had  ever  tasted  his  bounty) 
in  this  extremity,  as  freely  as  his  own.  Then  with  a  cheerful 
look,  as  if  confident  of  the  trial,  he  severally  despatched  messen- 
gers to  Lord  Lucius,  to  Lords  Lucullus  and  Sempronius,  men 
upon  whom  he  had  lavished  his  gifts  in  past  times  without  meas- 

[268] 


SHAKESPEARE 


ure  or  moderation;  and  to  Ventidius,  whom  he  had  lately  re- 
leased out  of  prison  by  paying  his  debts,  and  who,  by  the  death 
of  his  father,  was  now  come  into  the  possession  of  an  ample 
fortune  and  well  enabled  to  requite  Timon's  courtesy;  to  request 
of  Ventidius  the 
return  of  those  five 
talents  which  he 
had  paid  for  him, 
and  of  each  of  those 
noble  lords  the  loan 
of  fifty  talents; 
nothing  doubting 
that  their  gratitude 
would  supply  his 
wants  (if  he  needed 
it)  to  the  amount  of 
five  hundred  times 
fifty  talents. 

Lucullus  was  the 
first  applied  to. 
This  mean  lord  had 
been  dreaming  over- 
night  of  a  silver 
bason  and  cup,  and 
when  Timon's  ser- 
vant was  announced 
his  sordid  mind  suggested  to  him  that  this  was  surely  a 
making  out  of  his  dream,  and  that  Timon  had  sent  him  such 
a  present.  But  when  he  understood  the  truth  of  the  matter, 
and  that  Timon  wanted  money,  the  quality  of  his  faint  and 
watery  friendship  showed  itself,  for  with  many  protestations  he 
vowed  to  the  servant  that  he  had  long  foreseen  the  ruin  of  his 
master's  affairs,  and  many  a  time  had  he  come  to  dinner  to  tell 
him  of  it,  and  had  come  again  to  supper  to  try  to  persuade 
him  to  spend  less,  but  he  would  take  no  counsel  nor  warning  by 

[269] 


TALES    FROM 

his  coming.  And  true  it  was  that  he  had  been  a  constant  attender 
(as  he  said)  at  Timon's  feasts,  as  he  had  in  greater  things  tasted 
his  bounty;  but  that  he  ever  came  with  that  intent,  or  gave  good 
counsel  or  reproof  to  Timon,  was  a  base,  unworthy  lie,  which 
he  suitably  followed  up  with  meanly  offering  the  servant  a  bribe 
to  go  home  to  his  master  and  tell  him  that  he  had  not  found 
Lucullus  at  home. 

As  little  success  had  the  messenger  who  was  sent  to  Lord  Lucius. 
This  lying  lord,  who  was  full  of  Timon's  meat  and  enriched  al- 
most to  bursting  with  Timon's  costly  presents,  when  he  found 
the  wind  changed,  and  the  fountain  of  so  much  bounty  suddenly 
stopped,  at  first  could  hardly  believe  it;  but  on  its  being  con- 
firmed he  affected  great  regret  that  he  should  not  have  it  in  his 
power  to  serve  Lord  Timon,  for,  unfortunately  (which  was  a 
base  falsehood),  he  had  made  a  great  purchase  the  day  before, 
which  had  quite  disfurnished  him  of  the  means  at  present,  the 
more  beast  he,  he  called  himself,  to  put  it  out  of  his  power  to 
serve  so  good  a  friend;  and  he  counted  it  one  of  his  greatest 
afflictions  that  his  ability  should  fail  him  to  pleasure  such  an  hon- 
orable gentleman. 

Who  can  call  any  man  friend  that  dips  in  the  same  dish  with 
him  ?  Just  of  this  metal  is  every  flatterer.  In  the  recollection  of 
everybody  Timon  had  been  a  father  to  this  Lucius,  had  kept 
up  his  credit  with  his  purse;  Timon's  money  had  gone  to  pay  the 
wages  of  his  servants,  to  pay  the  hire  of  the  laborers  who  had 
sweat  to  build  the  fine  houses  which  Lucius's  pride  had  made 
necessary  to  him.  Yet — oh,  the  monster  which  man  makes  him- 
self when  he  proves  ungrateful! — this  Lucius  now  denied  to  Timon 
a  sum  which,  in  respect  of  what  Timon  had  bestowed  on  him,  was 
less  than  charitable  men  afford  to  beggars. 

Sempronius,  and  every  one  of  these  mercenary  lords  to  whom 
Timon  applied  in  their  turn,  returned  the  same  evasive  answer 
or  direct  denial;  even  Ventidius,  the  redeemed  and  now  rich 
Ventidius,  refused  to  assist  him  with  the  loan  of  those  five  talents 
which  Timon  had  not  lent  but  generously  given  him  in  his  distress. 

[270] 


SHAKESPEARE 

Now  was  Timon  as  much  avoided  in  his  poverty  as  he  had 
been  courted  and  resorted  to  in  his  riches.  Now  the  same  tongues 
which  had  been  loudest  in  his  praises,  extolling  him  as  bountiful, 
liberal,  and  open-handed,  were  not  ashamed  to  censure  that 
very  bounty  as  folly,  that  liberality  as  profuseness,  though  it 
had  shown  itself  folly  in  nothing  so  truly  as  in  the  selection  of 
such  unworthy  creatures  as  themselves  for  its  objects.  Now  was 
Timon's  princely  mansion  forsaken  and  become  a  shunned  and 
hated  place,  a  place  for  men  to  pass  by,  not  a  place,  as  formerly, 
where  every  passenger  must  stop  and  taste  of  his  wine  and  good 
cheer;  now,  instead  of  being  thronged  with  feasting  and  tumultu- 
ous guests,  it  was  beset  with  impatient  and  clamorous  creditors, 
usurers,  extortioners,  fierce  and  intolerable  in  their  demands, 
pleading  bonds,  interest,  mortgages;  iron-hearted  men  that  would 
take  no  denial  nor  putting  off,  that  Timon's  house  was  now  his 
jail,  which  he  could  not  pass,  nor  go  in  nor  out  for  them;  one 
demanding  his  due  of  fifty  talents,  another  bringing  in  a  bill  of 
five  thousand  crowns,  which,  if  he  would  tell  out  his  blood  by 
drops  and  pay  them  so,  he  had  not  enough  in  his  body  to  dis- 
charge, drop  by  drop. 

In  this  desperate  and  irremediable  state  (as  it  seemed)  of  his 
affairs,  the  eyes  of  all  men  were  suddenly  surprised  at  a  new  and 
incredible  luster  which  this  setting  sun  put  forth.  Once  more 
Lord  Timon  proclaimed  a  feast,  to  which  he  invited  his  accus- 
tomed guests — lords,  ladies,  all  that  was  great  or  fashionable  in 
Athens.  Lord  Lucius  and  Lucullus  came,  Ventidius,  Sempronius, 
and  the  rest.  Who  more  sorry  now  than  these  fawning  wretches, 
when  they  found  (as  they  thought)  that  Lord  Timon's  poverty 
was  all  pretense  and  had  been  only  put  on  to  make  trial  of  their 
loves,  to  think  that  they  should  not  have  seen  through  the  artifice 
at  the  time  and  have  had  the  cheap  credit  of  obliging  his  lord- 
ship? Yet  who  more  glad  to  find  the  fountain  of  that  noble  bounty 
which  they  had  thought  dried  up,  still  fresh  and  running?  They 
came  dissembling,  protesting,  expressing  deepest  sorrow  and 
shame,  that  when  his  lordship  sent  to  them  they  should  have 

[271] 


TALES    FROM 

been  so  unfortunate  as  to  want  the  present  means  to  oblige  so 
honorable  a  friend.  But  Timon  begged  them  not  to  give  such 
trifles  a  thought,  for  he  had  altogether  forgotten  it.  And  these 
base,  fawning  lords,  though  they  had  denied  him  money  in  his 
adversity,  yet  could  not  refuse  their  presence  at  this  new  blaze 
of  his  returning  prosperity.  For  the  swallow  follows  not  summer 
more  willingly  than  men  of  these  dispositions  follow  the  good 
fortunes  of  the  great,  nor  more  willingly  leaves  winter  than  these 
shrink  from  the  first  appearance  of  a  reverse.  Such  summer  birds 
are  men.  But  now  with  music  and  state  the  banquet  of  smoking 
dishes  was  served  up;  and  when  the  guests  had  a  little  done 
admiring  whence  the  bankrupt  Timon  could  find  means  to  fur- 
nish so  costly  a  feast,  some  doubting  whether  the  scene  which 
they  saw  was  real,  as  scarce  trusting  their  own  eyes,  at  a  signal 
given  the  dishes  were  uncovered  and  Timon's  drift  appeared. 
Instead  of  those  varieties  and  far-fetched  dainties  which  they 
expected,  that  Timon's  epicurean  table  in  past  times  had  so 
liberally  presented,  now  appeared  under  the  covers  of  these 
dishes  a  preparation  more  suitable  to  Timon's  poverty — nothing 
but  a  little  smoke  and  lukewarm  water,  fit  feast  for  this  knot  of 
mouth-friends,  whose  professions  were  indeed  smoke,  and  their 
hearts  lukewarm  and  slippery  as  the  water  with  which  Timon 
welcomed  his  astonished  guests,  bidding  them,  "Uncover,  dogs, 
and  lap;"  and,  before  they  could  recover  their  surprise,  sprinkling 
it  in  their  faces,  that  they  might  have  enough,  and  throwing 
dishes  and  all  after  them,  who  now  ran  huddling  out,  lords, 
ladies,  with  their  caps  snatched  up  in  haste,  a  splendid  confusion, 
Timon  pursuing  them,  still  calling  them  what  they  were,  "smooth 
smiling  parasites,  destroyers  under  the  mask  of  courtesy,  affable 
wolves,  meek  bears,  fools  of  fortune,  feast-friends,  time-flies." 
They,  crowding  out  to  avoid  him,  left  the  house  more  willingly 
than  they  had  entered  it;  some  losing  their  gowns  and  caps,  and 
some  their  jewels  in  the  hurry,  all  glad  to  escape  out  of  the  pres- 
ence of  such  a  mad  lord,  and  from  the  ridicule  of  his  mock  banquet. 
This  was  the  last  feast  which  ever  Timon  made,  and  in  it  he 

[272] 


SHAKESPEARE 

took  farewell  of  Athens  and  the  society  of  men;  for,  after  that,  he 
betook  himself  to  the  woods,  turning  his  back  upon  the  hated 
city  and  upon  all  mankind,  wishing  the  walls  of  that  detestable 
city  might  sink,  and  the  houses  fall  upon  their  owners,  wishing 
all  plagues  which  infest  humanity — war,  outrage,  poverty,  dis- 
eases— might  fasten  upon  its  inhabitants,  praying  the  just  gods 
to  confound  all  Athenians,  both  young  and  old,  high  and  low; 
so  wishing,  he  went  to  the  woods,  where  he  said  he  should  find 
the  unkindest  beast  much  kinder  than  mankind.  He  stripped 
himself  naked,  that  he  might  retain  no  fashion  of  a  man,  and 
dug  a  cave  to  live  in,  and  lived  solitary  in  the  manner  of  a  beast, 
eating  the  wild  roots  and  drinking  water,  flying  from  the  face  of 
his  kind,  and  choosing  rather  to  herd  with  wild  beasts,  as  more 
harmless  and  friendly  than  man. 

What  a  change  from  Lord  Timon  the  rich,  Lord  Timon  the 
delight  of  mankind,  to  Timon  the  naked,  Timon  the  man-hater! 
Where  were  his  flatterers  now?  Where  were  his  attendants  and 
retinue?  Would  the  bleak  air,  that  boisterous  servitor,  be  his 
chamberlain,  to  put  his  shirt  on  warm?  Would  those  stiff  trees 
that  had  outlived  the  eagle  turn  young  and  airy  pages  to  him, 
to  skip  on  his  errands  when  he  bade  them?  Would  the  cool  brook, 
when  it  was  iced  with  winter,  administer  to  him  his  warm  broths 
and  caudles  when  sick  of  an  overnight's  surfeit?  Or  would  the 
creatures  that  lived  in  those  wild  woods  come  and  lick  his  hand 
and  flatter  him? 

Here  on  a  day,  when  he  was  digging  for  roots,  his  poor  sus- 
tenance, his  spade  struck  against  something  heavy,  which  proved 
to  be  gold,  a  great  heap  which  some  miser  had  probably  buried 
in  a  time  of  alarm,  thinking  to  have  come  again  and  taken  it 
from  its  prison,  but  died  before  the  opportunity  had  arrived, 
without  making  any  man  privy  to  the  concealment;  so  it  lay, 
doing  neither  good  nor  harm,  in  the  bowels  of  the  earth,  its  mother, 
as  if  it  had  never  come  thence,  till  the  accidental  striking  of 
Timon's  spade  against  it  once  more  brought  it  to  light. 

Here  was  a  mass  of  treasure  which,  if  Timon  had  retained  his 
18  [  273  ] 


TALES    FROM 

old  mind,  was  enough  to  have  purchased  him  friends  and  flat- 
terers again;  but  Timon  was  sick  of  the  false  world  and  the  sight 
of  gold  was  poisonous  to  his  eyes;    and  he  would  have  restored 
it  to  the  earth,  but  that,  thinking  of  the  infinite  calamities  which 
by  means  of  gold  happen  to  mankind,  how  the  lucre  of  it  causes 
robberies,  oppression,  injustice,  briberies,  violence,  and  murder, 
among  men,  he  had  a  pleasure  in  imagining  (such  a  rooted  hatred 
did  he  bear  to  his  species)  that  out  of  this  heap,  which  in  digging 
he  had  discovered,  might  arise  some  mischief  to  plague  mankind. 
And  some  soldiers  passing  through  the  woods  near  to  his  cave 
at  that  instant,  which  proved  to  be  a  part  of  the  troops  of  the 
Athenian   captain   Alcibiades,   who,   upon   some   disgust   taken 
against  the  senators  of  Athens  (the  Athenians  were  ever  noted 
to  be  a  thankless  and  ungrateful  people,  giving  disgust  to  their 
generals  and  best  friends),  was  marching  at  the  head  of  the 
same  triumphant  army  which  he  had  formerly  headed  in  their 
defense,  to  war  against  them.    Timon,  who  liked  their  business 
well,  bestowed  upon  their  captain  the  gold  to  pay  his  soldiers, 
requiring  no  other  service  from  him  than  that  he  should  with  his 
conquering  army  lay  Athens  level  with  the  ground,  and  burn, 
slay,  kill  all  her  inhabitants;    not  sparing  the  old  men  for  their 
white  beards,  for  (he  said)  they  were  usurers,  nor  the  young  chil- 
dren for  their  seeming  innocent  smiles,  for  those  (he  said)  would 
live,  if  they  grew  up,  to  be  traitors;  but  to  steel  his  eyes  and  ears 
against  any  sights  or  sounds  that  might  awaken  compassion; 
and  not  to  let  the  cries  of  virgins,  babes,  or  mothers  hinder  him 
from  making  one  universal  massacre  of  the  city,  but  to  confound 
them  all  in  his  conquest;   and  when  he  had  conquered,  he  prayed 
that  the  gods  would  confound  him  also,  the  conqueror.    So  thor- 
oughly did  Timon  hate  Athens,  Athenians,  and  all  mankind. 

While  he  lived  in  this  forlorn  state,  leading  a  life  more  brutal 
than  human,  he  was  suddenly  surprised  one  day  with  the  appear- 
ance of  a  man  standing  in  an  admiring  posture  at  the  door  of  his 
cave.  It  was  Flavius,  the  honest  steward,  whom  love  and  zealous 
affection  to  his  master  had  led  to  seek  him  out  at  his  wretched 

[274] 


- »%"  *  — 


TIMON   BESTOWED  UPON  THEIR  CAPTAIN  THE  GOLD 
TO  PAY  HIS  SOLDIERS 


SHAKESPEARE 


dwelling  and  to  offer  his  services;  and  the  first  sight  of  his  master, 
the  once  noble  Timon,  in  that  abject  condition,  naked  as  he  was 
born,  living  in  the  manner  of  a  beast  among  beasts,  looking  like 
his  own  sad  ruins  and  a  monument  of  decay,  so  affected  this 
good  servant  that  he  stood  speech- 
less, wrapped  up  in  horror  and 
confounded.  And  when  he  found 
utterance  at  last  to  his  words, 
they  were  so  choked  with  tears 
that  Timon  had  much  ado  to 
know  him  again,  or  to  make  out 
who  it  was  that  had  come  (so 
contrary  to  the  experience  he  had 
had  of  mankind)  to  offer  him 
service  in  extremity.  And  being 
in  the  form  and  shape  of  a  man, 
he  suspected  him  for  a  traitor, 
and  his  tears  for  false;  but  the 
good  servant  by  so  many  tokens 
confirmed  the  truth  of  his  fidelity, 
and  made  it  clear  that  nothing 
but  love  and  zealous  duty  to  his 
once  dear  master  had  brought 
him  there,  that  Timon  was  forced 
to  confess  that  the  world  con- 
tained one  honest  man;  yet,  being 
in  the  shape  and  form  of  a  man, 
he  could  not  look  upon  his  man's 

face  without  abhorrence,  or  hear  words  uttered  from  his  man's 
lips  without  loathing;  and  this  singly  honest  man  was  forced  to 
depart,  because  he  was  a  man,  and  because,  with  a  heart  more 
gentle  and  compassionate  than  is  usual  to  man,  he  bore  man's 
detested  form  and  outward  feature. 

But  greater  visitants  than  a  poor  steward  were  about  to  inter- 
rupt the  savage  quiet  of  Timon's  solitude.    For  now  the  day  was 

[277] 


TALES    FROM 

come  when  the  ungrateful  lords  of  Athens  sorely  repented  the 
injustice  which  they  had  done  to  the  noble  Timon.  For  Alci- 
biades,  like  an  incensed  wild  boar,  was  raging  at  the  walls  of  their 
city,  and  with  his  hot  siege  threatened  to  lay  fair  Athens  in  the 
dust.  And  now  the  memory  of  Lord  Timon's  former  prowess 
and  military  conduct  came  fresh  into  their  forgetful  minds,  for 
Timon  had  been  their  general  in  past  times,  and  a  valiant  and 
expert  soldier,  who  alone  of  all  the  Athenians  was  deemed  able  to 
cope  with  a  besieging  army  such  as  then  threatened  them,  or  to 
drive  back  the  furious  approaches  of  Alcibiades. 

A  deputation  of  the  senators  was  chosen  in  this  emergency  to 
wait  upon  Timon.  To  him  they  come  in  their  extremity,  to  whom, 
when  he  was  in  extremity,  they  had  shown  but  small  regard;  as 
if  they  presumed  upon  his  gratitude  whom  they  had  disobliged, 
and  had  derived  a  claim  to  his  courtesy  from  their  own  most 
discourteous  and  unpiteous  treatment. 

Now  they  earnestly  beseech  him,  implore  him  with  tears,  to 
return  and  save  that  city  from  which  their  ingratitude  had  so 
lately  driven  him;  now  they  offer  him  riches,  power,  dignitiess, 
satisfaction  for  past  injuries,  and  public  honors,  and  the  public 
love;  their  persons,  lives,  and  fortunes  to  be  at  his  disposal,  if  he 
will  but  come  back  and  save  them.  But  Timon  the  naked,  Timon 
the  man-hater,  was  no  longer  Lord  Timon,  the  lord  of  bounty, 
the  flower  of  valor,  their  defense  in  war,  their  ornament  in  peace. 
If  Alcibiades  killed  his  countrymen,  Timon  cared  not.  If  he 
sacked  fair  Athens,  and  slew  her  old  men  and  her  infants,  Timon 
would  rejoice.  So  he  told  them;  and  that  there  was  not  a  knife  in 
the  unruly  camp  which  he  did  not  prize  above  the  reverendest 
throat  in  Athens. 

This  was  all  the  answer  he  vouchsafed  to  the  weeping,  disap- 
pointed senators;  only  at  parting  he  bade  them  commend  him  to 
his  countrymen,  and  tell  them  that  to  ease  them  of  their  griefs  and 
anxieties,  and  to  prevent  the  consequences  of  fierce  Alcibiades's 
wrath,  there  was  yet  a  way  left,  which  he  would  teach  them,  for  he 
had  yet  so  much  affection  left  for  his  dear  countrymen  as  to  be  will- 

[278] 


SHAKESPEARE 

ing  to  do  them  a  kindness  before  his  death.  These  words  a  little 
revived  the  senators,  who  hoped  that  his  kindness  for  their  city 
was  returning.  Then  Timon  told  them  that  he  had  a  tree,  which 
grew  near  his  cave,  which  he  should  shortly  have  occasion  to  cut 
down,  and  he  invited  all  his  friends  in  Athens,  high  or  low,  of  what 


degree  soever,  who  wished  to  shun  affliction,  to  come  and  take  a 
taste  of  his  tree  before  he  cut  it  down;  meaning  that  they  might 
come  and  hang  themselves  on  it  and  escape  affliction  that  way. 

And  this  was  the  last  courtesy,  of  all  his  noble  bounties,  which 
Timon  showed  to  mankind,  and  this  the  last  sight  of  him  which 
his  countrymen  had,  for  not  many  days  after,  a  poor  soldier,  pass- 
ing by  the  sea-beach  which  was  at  a  little  distance  from  the 
woods  which  Timon  frequented,  found  a  tomb  on  the  verge  of 
'the  sea,  with  an  inscription  upon  it  purporting  that  it  was  the 

[279] 


TALES    FROM 

grave  of  Timon  the  man-hater,  who  "While  he  lived,  did  hate  all 
living  men,  and,  dying,  wished  a  plague  might  consume  all  caitiffs 
left!" 

Whether  he  finished  his  life  by  violence,  or  whether  mere 
distaste  of  life  and  the  loathing  he  had  for  mankind  brought  Timon 
to  his  conclusion,  was  not  clear,  yet  all  men  admired  the  fitness  of 
his  epitaph  and  the  consistency  of  his  end,  dying,  as  he  had  lived, 
a  hater  of  mankind.  And  some  there  were  who  fancied  a  con- 
ceit in  the  very  choice  which  he  had  made  of  the  sea-beach  for 
his  place  of  burial,  where  the  vast  sea  might  weep  forever  upon 
his  grave,  as  in  contempt  of  the  transient  and  shallow  tears  of 
hypocritical  and  deceitful  mankind. 


SHAKESPEARE 


ROMEO  AND   JULIET 


■ 


r? 


HE  two  chief  families  in  Verona  were 
the  rich  Capulets  and  the  Montagues. 
There  had  been  an  old  quarrel  between 
these  families,  which  was  grown  to  such 
a  height,  and  so  deadly  was  the  enmity 
between  them,  that  it  extended  to  the 
remotest  kindred,  to  the  followers  and 
retainers  of  both  sides,  in  so  much  that 
a  servant  of  the  house  of  Montague  could 
not  meet  a  servant  of  the  house  of  Capulet,  nor  a  Capulet  en- 
counter with  a  Montague  by  chance,  but  fierce  words  and  some- 
times bloodshed  ensued;  and  frequent  were  the  brawls  from  such 
accidental  meetings,  which  disturbed  the  happy  quiet  of  Verona's 
streets. 

Old  Lord  Capulet  made  a  great  supper,  to  which  many  fair 
ladies  and  many  noble  guests  were  invited.  All  the  admired 
beauties  of  Verona  were  present,  and  all  comers  were  made  wel- 
come if  they  were  not  of  the  house  of  Montague.  At  this  feast 
of  Capulets,  Rosaline,  beloved  of  Romeo,  son  to  the  old  Lord 
Montague,  was  present;  and  though  it  was  dangerous  for  a 
Montague  to  be  seen  in  this  assembly,  yet  Benvolio,  a  friend  of 
Romeo,  persuaded  the  young  lord  to  go  to  this  assembly  in  the 
disguise  of  a  mask,  that  he  might  see  his  Rosaline,  and,  seeing  her, 
compare  her  with  some  choice  beauties  of  Verona,  who  (he  said) 
would  make  him  think  his  swan  a  crow.  Romeo  had  small  faith 
in  Benvolio's  words;  nevertheless,  for  the  love  of  Rosaline,  he 
was  persuaded  to  go.  For  Romeo  was  a  sincere  and  passionate 
lover,  and  one  that  lost  his  sleep  for  love  and  fled  society  to  be 
alone,  thinking  on  Rosaline,  who  disdained  him  and  never  re- 

[281I 


TALES    FROM 

quited  his  love  with  the  least  show  of  courtesy  or  affection;  and 
Benvolio  wished  to  cure  his  friend  of  this  love  by  showing  him 
diversity  "of  ladies  and  company.  To  this  feast  of  Capulets,  then, 
young  Romeo,  with  Benvolio  artd  their  friend  Mercutio,  went 
masked.  Old  Capulet  bid  them  welcome  and  told  them  that 
ladies  who  had  their  toes  unplagued  with  corns  would  dance 
with  them.  And  the  old  man  was  light-hearted  and  merry,  and 
said  that  he  had  worn  a  mask  when  he  was  young  and  could 
have  told  a  whispering  tale  in  a  fair  lady's  ear.  And  they  fell 
to  dancing,  and  Romeo  was  suddenly  struck  with  the  exceeding 
beauty  of  a  lady  who  danced  there,  who  seemed  to  him  to  teach 
the  torches  to  burn  bright,  and  her  beauty  to  show  by  night  like 
a  rich  jewel  worn  by  a  blackamoor;  beauty  too  rich  for  use,  too 
dear  for  earth !  like  a  snowy  dove  trooping  with  crows  (he  said), 
so  richly  did  her  beauty  and  perfections  shine  above  the  ladies 
her  companions.  While  he  uttered  these  praises  he  was  overheard 
by  Tybalt,  a  nephew  of  Lord  Capulet,  who  knew  him  by  his 
voice  to  be  Romeo.  And  this  Tybalt,  being  of  a  fiery  and  pas- 
sionate temper,  could  not  endure  that  a  Montague  should  come 
under  cover  of  a  mask,  to  fleer  and  scorn  (as  he  said)  at  their 
solemnities.  And  he  stormed  and  raged  exceedingly,  and  would 
have  struck  young  Romeo  dead.  But  his  uncle,  the  old  Lord 
Capulet,  would  not  suffer  him  to  do  any  injury  at  that  time,  both 
out  of  respect  to  his  guests  and  because  Romeo  had  borne  himself 
like  a  gentleman  and  all  tongues  in  Verona  bragged  of  him  to  be  a 
virtuous  and  well-governed  youth.  Tybalt,  forced  to  be  patient 
against  his  will,  restrained  himself,  but  swore  that  this  vile  Mon- 
tague should  at  another  time  dearly  pay  for  his  intrusion. 

The  dancing  being  done,  Romeo  watched  the  place  where  the 
lady  stood;  and  under  favor  of  his  masking  habit,  which  might 
seem  to  excuse  in  part  the  liberty,  he  presumed  in  the  gentlest 
manner  to  take  her  by  the  hand,  calling  it  a  shrine,  which  if  he 
profaned  by  touching  it,  he  was  a  blushing  pilgrim  and  would 
kiss  it  for  atonement. 

"Good  pilgrim,"  answered  the  lady,  "your  devotion  shows  by 

J  282] 


SHAKESPEARE 

far  too  mannerly  and  too  courtly.  Saints  have  hands  which 
pilgrims  may  touch  but  kiss  not." 

"Have  not  saints  lips,  and  pilgrims,  too?"  said  Romeo. 

"Aye,"  said  the  lady,  "lips  which  they  must  use  in  prayer." 

"Oh,  then,  my  dear  saint,"  said  Romeo,  "hear  my  prayer,  and 
grant  it,  lest  I  despair." 

In  such  like  allusions  and  loving  conceits  they  were  engaged 
when  the  lady  was  called  away  to  her  mother.  And  Romeo, 
inquiring  who  her  mother  was,  discovered  that  the  lady  whose 
peerless  beauty  he  was  so  much  struck  with  was  young  Juliet, 
daughter  and  heir  to  the  Lord  Capulet,  the  great  enemy  of  the 
Montagues;  and  that  he  had  unknowingly  engaged  his  heart  to 
his  foe.  This  troubled  him,  but  it  could  not  dissuade  him  from 
loving.  As  little  rest  had  Juliet  when  she  found  that  the  gentle- 
man that  she  had  been  talking  with  was  Romeo  and  a  Montague, 
for  she  had  been  suddenly  smit  with  the  same  hasty  and  incon- 
siderate passion  for  Romeo  which  he  had  conceived  for  her;  and 
a  prodigious  birth  of  love  it  seemed  to  her,  that  she  must  love  her 
enemy  and  that  her  affections  should  settle  there,  where  family 
considerations  should  induce  her  chiefly  to  hate. 

It  being  midnight,  Romeo  with  his  companions  departed;  but 
they  soon  missed  him,  for,  unable  to  stay  away  from  the  house 
where  he  had  left  his  heart,  he  leaped  the  wall  of  an  orchard  which 
was  at  the  back  of  Juliet's  house.  Here  he  had  not  been  long, 
ruminating  on  his  new  love,  when  Juliet  appeared  above  at  a  win- 
dow, through  which  her  exceeding  beauty  seemed  to  break  like 
the  light  of  the  sun  in  the  east;  and  the  moon,  which  shone  in 
the  orchard  with  a  faint  light,  appeared  to  Romeo  as  if  sick  and 
pale  with  grief  at  the  superior  luster  of  this  new  sun.  And  she 
leaning  her  cheek  upon  her  hand,  he  passionately  wished  him- 
self a  glove  upon  that  hand,  that  he  might  touch  her  cheek.  She 
all  this  while  thinking  herself  alone,  fetched  a  deep  sigh,  and 
exclaimed : 

"Ah  me!" 

Romeo,  enraptured  to  hear  her  speak,  said,  softly  and  unheard 

[  283  ] 


TALES    FROM 

by  her,  "Oh,  speak  again,  bright  angel,  for  such  you  appear, 
being  over  my  head,  like  a  winged  messenger  from  heaven  whom 
mortals  fall  back  to  gaze  upon." 

She,  unconscious  of  being  overheard,  and  full  of  the  new  pas- 
sion which  that  night's  adventure  had  given  birth  to,  called  upon 
her  lover  by  name  (whom  she  supposed  absent).  "O  Romeo, 
Romeo!"  said  she,  "wherefore  art  thou  Romeo?  Deny  thy 
father  and  refuse  thy  name,  for  my  sake;  or  if  thou  wilt  not,  be 
but  my  sworn  love,  and  I  no  longer  will  be  a  Capulet." 

Romeo,  having  this  encouragement,  would  fain  have  spoken, 
but  he  was  desirous  of  hearing  more;  and  the  lady  continued  her 
passionate  discourse  with  herself  (as  she  thought),  still  chiding 
Romeo  for  being  Romeo  and  a  Montague,  and  wishing  him  some 
other  name,  or  that  he  would  put  away  that  hated  name,  and 
for  that  name  which  was  no  part  of  himself  he  should  take  all 
herself.  At  this  loving  word  Romeo  could  no  longer  refrain,  but, 
taking  up  the  dialogue  as  if  her  words  had  been  addressed  to  him 
personally,  and  not  merely  in  fancy,  he  bade  her  call  him  Love, 
or  by  whatever  other  name  she  pleased,  for  he  was  no  longer 
Romeo,  if  that  name  was  displeasing  to  her.  Juliet,  alarmed  to 
hear  a  man's  voice  in  the  garden,  did  not  at  first  know  who 
it  was  that  by  favor  of  the  night  and  darkness  had  thus 
stumbled  upon  the  discovery  of  her  secret;  but  when  he 
spoke  again,  though  her  ears  had  not  yet  drunk  a  hundred 
words  of  that  tongue's  uttering,  yet  so  nice  is  a  lover's  hear- 
ing that  she  immediately  knew  him  to  be  young  Romeo,  and 
she  expostulated  with  him  on  the  danger  to  which  he  had 
exposed  himself  by  climbing  the  orchard  walls,  for  if  any  of 
her  kinsmen  should  find  him  there  it  would  be  death  to  him, 
being  a  Montague. 

"Alack!"  said  Romeo,  "there  is  more  peril  in  your  eye  than  in 
twenty  of  their  swords.  Do  you  but  look  kind  upon  me,  lady, 
and  I  am  proof  against  their  enmity.  Better  my  life  should  be 
ended  by  their  hate  than  that  hated  life  should  be  prolonged  to 
live  without  your  love." 

[284] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"How  came  you  into  this  place,"  said  Juliet,  "and  by  whose 
direction  ?" 

"Love  directed  me,"  answered  Romeo.  "I  am  no  pilot,  yet 
wert  thou  as  far  apart  from  me  as  that  vast  shore  which  is  washed 
with  the  farthest  sea,  I  should  venture  for  such  merchandise." 

A  crimson  blush  came  over  Juliet's  face,  yet  unseen  by  Romeo 
by  reason  of  the  night,  when  she  reflected  upon  the  discovery 
which  she  had  made,  yet  not  meaning  to  make  it,  of  her  love  to 
Romeo.  She  would  fain  have  recalled  her  words,  but  that  was 
impossible;  fain  would  she  have  stood  upon  form,  and  have  kept 
her  lover  at  a  distance,  as  the  custom  of  discreet  ladies  is,  to  frown 
and  be  perverse  and  give  their  suitors  harsh  denials  at  first;  to 
stand  off",  and  affect  a  coyness  or  indifference  where  they  most 
love,  that  their  lovers  may  not  think  them  too  lightly  or  too 
easily  won;  for  the  difficulty  of  attainment  increases  the  value  of 
the  object.  But  there  was  no  room  in  her  case  for  denials,  or 
puttings  off,  or  any  of  the  customary  arts  of  delay  and  protracted 
courtship.  Romeo  had  heard  from  her  own  tongue,  when  she 
did  not  dream  that  he  was  near  her,  a  confession  of  her  love. 
So  with  an  honest  frankness  which  the  novelty  of  her  situation 
excused  she  confirmed  the  truth  of  what  he  had  before  heard, 
and,  addressing  him  by  the  name  of  fair  Montague  (love  can 
sweeten  a  sour  name),  she  begged  him  not  to  impute  her  easy 
yielding  to  levity  or  an  unworthy  mind,  but  that  he  must  lay  the 
fault  of  it  (if  it  were  a  fault)  upon  the  accident  of  the  night  which 
had  so  strangely  discovered  her  thoughts.  And  she  added,  that 
though  her  behavior  to  him  might  not  be  sufficiently  prudent, 
measured  by  the  custom  of  her  sex,  yet  that  she  would  prove 
more  true  than  many  whose  prudence  was  dissembling,  and  their 
modesty  artificial  cunning. 

Romeo  was  beginning  to  call  the  heavens  to  witness  that  noth- 
ing was  farther  from  his  thoughts  than  to  impute  a  shadow  of 
dishonor  to  such  an  honored  lady,  when  she  stopped  him,  begging 
him  not  to  swear;  for  although  she  joyed  in  him,  yet  she  had 
no  joy  of  that  night's  contract — it  was  too  rash,  too  unadvised, 

[285] 


TALES    FROM 


too  sudden.  But  he  being  urgent  with  her  to  exchange  a  vow  of 
love  with  him  that  night,  she  said  that  she  already  had  given 
him  hers  before  he  requested  it,  meaning,  when  he  overheard 
her  confession;    but  she  would  retract  what  she  then  bestowed, 

for  the  pleasure  of 
giving  it  again,  for 
her  bounty  was  as 
infinite  as  the  sea, 
and  her  love  as 
deep.  From  this 
loving  conference 
she  was  called 
away  by  her  nurse, 
who  slept  with  her 
and  thought  it 
time  for  her  to  be 
in  bed,  for  it  was 
near  to  daybreak; 
but,  hastily  re- 
turning, she  said 
three  or  four 
words  more  to 
Romeo,  the  pur- 
port of  which  was, 
that  if  his  love 
was  indeed  honor- 
able, and  his  pur- 
pose marriage,  she 
would  send  a  messenger  to  him  to-morrow  to  appoint  a  time 
for  their  marriage,  when  she  would  lay  all  her  fortunes  at  his 
feet  and  follow  him  as  her  lord  through  the  world.  While 
they  were  settling  this  point  Juliet  was  repeatedly  called  for 
by  her  nurse,  and  went  in  and  returned,  and  went  and  re- 
turned again,  for  she  seemed  as  jealous  of  Romeo  going  from 
her  as  a  young  girl  of  her  bird,  which  she  will  let  hop  a  little 

L286] 


SHAKESPEARE 

from  her  hand  and  pluck  it  back  with  a  silken  thread;  and  Romeo 
was  as  loath  to  part  as  she,  for  the  sweetest  music  to  lovers  is 
the  sound  of  each  other's  tongues  at  night.  But  at  last  they 
parted,  wishing  mutually  sweet  sleep  and  rest  for  that  night. 

The  daywas ;  breaking  when  they  parted,  and  Romeo,  who  was 
too  full  of  thoughts  of  his  mistress  and  that  blessed  meeting  to 
allow  him  to  sleep,  instead  of  going  home,  bent  his  course  to  a 
monastery  hard  by,  to  find  Friar  Lawrence.  The  good  friar  was 
already  up  at  his  devotions,  but,  seeing  young  Romeo  abroad  so 
early,  he  conjectured  rightly  that  he  had  not  been  abed  that  night, 
but  that  some  distemper  of  youthful  affection  had  kept  him 
waking.  He  was  right  in  imputing  the  cause  of  Romeo's  wakeful- 
ness to  love,  but  he  made  a  wrong  guess  at  the  object,  for  he 
thought  that  his  love  for  Rosaline  had  kept  him  waking.  But 
when  Romeo  revealed  his  new  passion  for  Juliet,  and  requested 
the  assistance  of  the  friar  to  marry  them  that  day,  the  holy  man 
lifted  up  his  eyes  and  hands  in  a  sort  of  wonder  at  the  sudden 
change  in  Romeo's  affections,  for  he  had  been  privy  to  all  Romeo's 
love  for  Rosaline  and  his  many  complaints  of  her  disdain;  and 
he  said  that  young  men's  love  lay  not  truly  in  their  hearts,  but  in 
their  eyes.  But  Romeo  replying  that  he  himself  had  often  chidden 
him  for  doting  on  Rosaline,  who  could  not  love  him  again,  whereas 
Juliet  both  loved  and  was  beloved  by  him,  the  friar  assented  in 
some  measure  to  his  reasons;  and  thinking  that  a  matrimonial 
alliance  between  young  Juliet  and  Romeo  might  happily  be  the 
means  of  making  up  the  long  breach  between  the  Capulets  and 
the  Montagues,  which  no  one  more  lamented  than  this  good  friar 
who  was  a  friend  to  both  the  families  and  had  often  interposed 
his  mediation  to  make  up  the  quarrel  without  effect;  partly 
moved  by  policy,  and  partly  by  his  fondness  for  young  Romeo,  to 
whom  he  could  deny  nothing,  the  old  man  consented  to  join  their 
hands  in  marriage. 

Now  was  Romeo  blessed  indeed,  and  Juliet,  who  knew  his 
intent  from  a  messenger  which  she  had  despatched  according  to 
promise,  did  not  fail  to  be  early  at  the  cell  of  Friar  Lawrence, 

[287] 


TALES    FROM 

where  their  hands  were  joined  in  holy  marriage,  the  good  friar 
praying  the  heavens  to  smile  upon  that  act,  and  in  the  union  of 
this  young  Montague  and  young  Capulet  to  bury  the  old  strife 
and  long  dissensions  of  their  families. 

The  ceremony  being  over,  Juliet  hastened  home,  where  she 
stayed,  impatient  for  the  coming  of  night,  at  which  time  Romeo 
promised  to  come  and  meet  her  in  the  orchard,  where  they  had 
met  the  night  before;  and  the  time  between  seemed  as  tedious 
to  her  as  the  night  before  some  great  festival  seems  to  an  impa- 
tient child  that  has  got  new  finery  which  it  may  not  put  on  till 
the  morning. 

That  same  day,  about  noon,  Romeo's  friends,  Benvolio  and 
Mercutio,  walking  through  the  streets  of  Verona,  were  met  by 
a  party  of  the  Capulets  with  the  impetuous  Tybalt  at  their  head. 
This  was  the  same  angry  Tybalt  who  would  have  fought  with 
Romeo  at  old  Lord  Capulet's  feast.  He,  seeing  Mercutio,  accused 
him  bluntly  of  associating  with  Romeo,  a  Montague.  Mercutio, 
who  had  as  much  fire  and  youthful  blood  in  him  as  Tybalt, 
replied  to  this  accusation  with  some  sharpness;  and  in  spite  of 
all  Benvolio  could  say  to  moderate  their  wrath  a  quarrel  was  be- 
ginning when,  Romeo  himself  passing  that  way,  the  fierce  Tybalt 
turned  from  Mercutio  to  Romeo,  and  gave  him  the  disgraceful 
appellation  of  villain.  Romeo  wished  to  avoid  a  quarrel  with 
Tybalt  above  all  men,  because  he  was  the  kinsman  of  Juliet  and 
much  beloved  by  her;  besides,  this  young  Montague  had  never 
thoroughly  entered  into  the  family  quarrel,  being  by  nature  wise 
and  gentle,  and  the  name  of  a  Capulet,  which  was  his  dear  lady's 
name,  was  now  rather  a  charm  to  allay  resentment  than  a  watch- 
word to  excite  fury.  So  he  tried  to  reason  with  Tybalt,  whom  he 
saluted  mildly  by  the  name  of  good  Capulet,  as  if  he,  though  a 
Montague,  had  some  secret  pleasure  in  uttering  that  name;  but 
Tybalt,  who  hated  all  Montagues  as  he  hated  hell,  would  hear 
no  reason,  but  drew  his  weapon;  and  Mercutio,  who  knew  not 
of  Romeo's  secret  motive  for  desiring  peace  with  Tybalt,  but 
looked  upon  his  present  forbearance  as  a  sort  of  calm  dishonor- 

[288] 


"ROMEO    SHALL   THANK    THEE,    DAUGHTER,    FOR 

US    BOTH" 


19 


SHAKESPEARE 


able  submission,  with  many  disdainful  words  provoked  Tybalt 
to  the  prosecution  of  his  first  quarrel  with  him;  and  Tybalt  and 
Mercutio  fought,  till  Mercutio  fell,  receiving  his  death's  wound 
while  Romeo  and  Benvolio  were  vainly  endeavoring  to  part  the 
combatants.  Mercutio  being  dead,  Romeo  kept  his  temper  no 
longer,  but  re- 
turned the  scorn- 
ful appellation  of 
villain  which  Ty- 
balt had  given  him, 
and  they  fought  till 
Tybalt  was  slain 
by  Romeo.  This 
deadly  broil  falling 
out  in  the  midst  of 
Verona  at  noon- 
day, the  news  of 
it  quickly  brought 
a  crowd  of  citizens 
to  the  spot,  and 
among  them  the 
old  Lords  Capulet 
and  Montague, 
with  their  wives; 
and  soon  after  ar- 


<£s± 


rived  the  prince  himself,  who,  being  related  to  Mercutio,  whom 
Tybalt  had  slain,  and  having  had  the  peace  of  his  govern- 
ment often  disturbed  by  these  brawls  of  Montagues  and 
Capulets,  came  determined  to  put  the  law  in  strictest  force 
against  those  who  should  be  found  to  be  offenders.  Benvolio, 
who  had  been  eye-witness  to  the  fray,  was  commanded  by  the 
prince  to  relate  the  origin  of  it;  which  he  did,  keeping  as  near 
the  truth  as  he  could  without  injury  to  Romeo,  softening  and 
excusing  the  part  which  his  friends  took  in  it.  Lady  Capulet, 
whose  extreme  grief  for  the  loss  of  her  kinsman  Tybalt  made  her 

[291] 


TALES    FROM 

keep  no  bounds  in  her  revenge,  exhorted  the  prince  to  do  strict 
justice  upon  his  murderer,  and  to  pay  no  attention  to  Benvolio's 
representation,  who,  being  Romeo's  friend  and  a  Montague,  spoke 
partially.  Thus  she  pleaded  against  her  new  son-in-law,  but  she 
knew  not  yet  that  he  was  her  son-in-law  and  Juliet's  husband. 
On  the  other  hand  was  to  be  seen  Lady  Montague  pleading  for 
her  child's  life,  and  arguing  with  some  justice  that  Romeo  had 
done  nothing  worthy  of  punishment  in  taking  the  life  of  Tybalt, 
which  was  already  forfeited  to  the  law  by  his  having  slain  Mer- 
cutio.  The  prince,  unmoved  by  the  passionate  exclamations  of 
these  women,  on  a  careful  examination  of  the  facts  pronounced 
his  sentence,  and  by  that  sentence  Romeo  was  banished  from 
Verona. 

Heavy  news  to  young  Juliet,  who  had  been  but  a  few  hours  a 
bride  and  now  by  this  decree  seemed  everlastingly  divorced! 
When  the  tidings  reached  her,  she  at  first  gave  way  to  rage  against 
Romeo,  who  had  slain  her  dear  cousin.  She  called  him  a  beautiful 
tyrant,  a  fiend  angelical,  a  ravenous  dove,  a  lamb  with  a  wolf's 
nature,  a  serpent-heart  hid  with  a  flowering  face,  and  other^like 
contradictory  names,  which  denoted  the  struggles  in  her  mind 
between  her  love  and  her  resentment.  But  in  the  end  love  got 
the  mastery,  and  the  tears  which  she  shed  for  grief  that  Romeo 
had  slain  her  cousin  turned  to  drops  of  joy  that  her  husband  lived 
whom  Tybalt  would  have  slain.  Then  came  fresh  tears,  and  they 
were  altogether  of  grief  for  Romeo's  banishment.  That  word 
was  more  terrible  to  her  than  the  death  of  many  Tybalts. 

Romeo,  after  the  fray,  had  taken  refuge  in  Friar  Lawrence's 
cell,  where  he  was  first  made  acquainted  with  the  prince's  sen- 
tence, which  seemed  to  him  far  more  terrible  than  death.  To 
him  it  appeared  there  was  no  world  out  of  Verona's  walls,  no  living 
out  of  the  sight  of  Juliet.  Heaven  was  there  where  Juliet  lived, 
and  all  beyond  was  purgatory,  torture,  hell.  The  good  friar 
would  have  applied  the  consolation  of  philosophy  to  his  griefs; 
but  this  frantic  young  man  would  hear  of  none,  but  like  a  mad- 
man he  tore  his  hair  and  threw  himself  all  along  upon  the  ground, 

[292] 


SHAKESPEARE 

as  he  said,  to  take  the  measure  of  his  grave.  From  this  unseemly 
state  he  was  roused  by  a  message  from  his  dear  lady,  which  a  little 
revived  him;  and  then  the  friar  took  the  advantage  to  expostu- 
late with  him  on  the  unmanly  weakness  which  he  had  shown. 
He  had  slain  Tybalt,  but  would  he  also  slay  himself,  slay  his  dear 
lady,  who  lived  but  in  his  life?  The  noble  form  of  man,  he  said, 
was  but  a  shape  of  wax  when  it  wanted  the  courage  which  should 
keep  it  firm.  The  law  had  been  lenient  to  him  that  instead  of 
death,  which  he  had  incurred,  had  pronounced  by  the  prince's 
mouth  only  banishment.  He  had  slain  Tybalt,  but  Tybalt  would 
have  slain  him — there  was  a  sort  of  happiness  in  that.  Juliet 
was  alive  and  (beyond  all  hope)  had  become  his  dear  wife;  therein 
he  was  most  happy.  All  these  blessings,  as  the  friar  made  them 
out  to  be,  did  Romeo  put  from  htm  like  a  sullen  misbehaved 
wench.  And  the  friar  bade  him  beware,  for  such  as  despaired  (he 
said)  died  miserable.  Then  when  Romeo  was  a  little  calmed  he 
counseled  him  that  he  should  go  that  night  and  secretly  take 
his  leave  of  Juliet,  and  thence  proceed  straightway  to  Mantua, 
at  which  place  he  should  sojourn  till  the  friar  found  fit  occasion 
to  publish  his  marriage,  which  might  be  a  joyful  means  of  recon- 
ciling their  families;  and  then  he  did  not  doubt  but  the  prince 
would  be  moved  to  pardon  him,  and  he  would  return  with  twenty 
times  more  joy  than  he  went  forth  with  grief.  Romeo  was  con- 
vinced by  these  wise  counsels  of  the  friar,  and  took  his  leave  to 
go  and  seek  his  lady,  proposing  to  stay  with  her  that  night,  and 
by  daybreak  pursue  his  journey  alone  to  Mantua;  to  which  place 
the  good  friar  promised  to  send  him  letters  from  time  to  time, 
acquainting  him  with  the  state  of  affairs  at  home. 

That  night  Romeo  passed  with  his  dear  wife,  gaining  secret 
admission  to  her  chamber  from  the  orchard  in  which  he  had 
heard  her  confession  of  love  the  night  before.  That  had  been  a 
night  of  unmixed  joy  and  rapture;  but  the  pleasures  of  this  night 
and  the  delight  which  these  lovers  took  in  each  other's  society 
were  sadly  allayed  with  the  prospect  of  parting  and  the  fatal  ad- 
ventures of  the  past  day.    The  unwelcome  daybreak  seemed  to 

[293I 


TA  LE  S    FROM 

come  too  soon,  and  when  Juliet  heard  the  morning  song  of  the 
lark  she  would  have  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  the  nightingale, 
which  sings  by  night;  but  it  was  too  truly  the  lark  which  sang, 
and  a  discordant  and  unpleasing  note  it  seemed  to  her;  and  the 
streaks  of  day  in  the  east  too  certainly  pointed  out  that  it  was 
time  for  these  lovers  to  part.  Romeo  took  his  leave  of  his  dear 
wife  with  a  heavy  heart,  promising  to  write  to  her  from  Mantua 
every  hour  in  the  day;  and  when  he  had  descended  from  her 
chamber  window,  as  he  stood  below  her  on  the  ground,  in  that 
sad  foreboding  state  of  mind  in  which  she  was,  he  appeared  to 
her  eyes  as  one  dead  in  the  bottom  of  a  tomb.  Romeo's  mind 
misgave  him  in  like  manner.  But  now  he  was  forced  hastily  to 
depart,  for  it  was  death  for  him  to  be  found  within  the  walls  of 
Verona  after  daybreak. 

This  was  but  the  beginning  of  the  tragedy  of  this  pair  of  star- 
crossed  lovers.  Romeo  had  not  been  gone  many  days  before  the 
old  Lord  Capulet  proposed  a  match  for  Juliet.  The  husband 
he  had  chosen  for  her,  not  dreaming  that  she  was  married  already, 
was  Count  Paris,  a  gallant,  young,  and  noble  gentleman,  no  un- 
worthy suitor  to  the  young  Juliet  if  she  had  never  seen  Romeo. 

The  terrified  Juliet  was  in  a  sad  perplexity  at  her  father's  offer. 
She  pleaded  her  youth  unsuitable  to  marriage,  the  recent  death 
of  Tybalt,  which  had  left  her  spirits  too  weak  to  meet  a  husband 
with  any  face  of  joy,  and  how  indecorous  it  would  show  for  the 
family  of  the  Capulets  to  be  celebrating  a  nuptial  feast  when  his 
funeral  solemnities  were  hardly  over.  She  pleaded  every  reason 
against  the  match  but  the  true  one,  namely,  that  she  was  married 
already.  But  Lord  Capulet  was  deaf  to  all  her  excuses,  and  in 
a  peremptory  manner  ordered  her  to  get  ready,  for  by  the  fol- 
lowing Thursday  she  should  be  married  to  Paris.  And  having 
found  her  a  husband,  rich,  young,  and  noble,  such  as  the  proudest 
maid  in  Verona  might  joyfully  accept,  he  could  not  bear  that  out 
of  an  affected  coyness,  as  he  construed  her  denial,  she  should 
oppose  obstacles  to  her  own  good  fortune. 

In  this  extremity  Juliet  applied  to  the  friendly  friar,  always 

[294] 


'-'I   MUST   BEGONE   AND   LIVE,  OR   STAY   AND   DIE" 


SHAKESPEARE 

her  counselor  in  distress,  and  he  asking  her  if  she  had  resolution 
to  undertake  a  desperate  remedy,  and  she  answering  that  she 
would  go  into  the  grave  alive  rather  than  marry  Paris,  her  own 
dear  husband  living,  he  directed  her  to  go  home,  and  appear 
merry,  and  give  her  consent  to  marry  Paris,  according  to  her 
father's  desire,  and  on  the  next  night,  which  was  the  night  before 
the  marriage,  to  drink  off  the  contents  of  a  vial  which  he  then  gave 
her,  the  effect  of  which  would  be  that  for  two-and-forty  hours 
after  drinking  it  she  should  appear  cold  and  lifeless,  and  when 
the  bridegroom  came  to  fetch  her  in  the  morning  he  would  find 
her  to  appearance  dead;  that  then  she  would  be  borne,  as  the 
manner  in  that  country  was,  uncovered  on  a  bier,  to  be  buried 
in  the  family  vault;  that  if  she  could  put  off  womanish  fear,  and 
consent  to  this  terrible  trial,  in  forty-two  hours  after  swallowing 
the  liquid  (such  was  its  certain  operation)  she  would  be  sure  to 
awake,  as  from  a  dream;  and  before  she  should  awake  he  would 
let.  her  husband  know  their  drift,  and  he  should  come  in  the 
night  and  bear  her  thence  to  Mantua.  Love,  and  the  dread  of 
marrying  Paris,  gave  young  Juliet  strength  to  undertake  this 
horrible  adventure;  and  she  took  the  vial  of  the  friar,  promising 
to  observe  his  directions. 

Going  from  the  monastery,  she  met  the  young  Count  Paris, 
and,  modestly  dissembling,  promised  to  become  his  bride.  This 
was  joyful  news  to  the  Lord  Capulet  and  his  wife.  It  seemed  to 
put  youth  into  the  old  man;  and  Juliet,  who  had  displeased  him 
exceedingly  by  her  refusal  of  the  count,  was  his  darling  again, 
now  she  promised  to  be  obedient.  All  things  in  the  house  were  in 
a  bustle  against  the  approaching  nuptials.  No  cost  was  spared 
to  prepare  such  festival  rejoicings  as  Verona  had  never  before 
witnessed. 

On  the  Wednesday  night  Juliet  drank  off  the  potion.  She  had 
many  misgivings  lest  the  friar,  to  avoid  the  blame  which  might 
be  imputed  to  him  for  marrying  her  to  Romeo,  had  given  her 
poison;  but  then  he  was  always  known  for  a  holy  man.  Then 
lest  she  should  awake  before  the  time  that  Romeo  was  to  come 

[297  J 


TA  LE  S    FROM 

for  her;  whether  the  terror  of  the  place,  a  vault  full  of  dead 
Capulets'  bones,  and  where  Tybalt,  all  bloody,  lay  festering  in 
his  shroud,  would  not  be  enough  to  drive  her  distracted.  Again 
she  thought  of  all  the  stories  she  had  heard  of  spirits  haunting 
the  places  where  their  bodies  were  bestowed.  But  then  her 
love  for  Romeo  and  her  aversion  for  Paris  returned,  and  she 
desperately  swallowed  the  draught  and  became  insensible. 

When  young  Paris  came  early  in  the  morning  with  music  to 
awaken  his  bride,  instead  of  a  living  Juliet  her  chamber  presented 
the  dreary  spectacle  of  a  lifeless  corse.  What  death  to  his  hopes! 
What  confusion  then  reigned  through  the  whole  house!  Poor  Paris 
lamenting  his  bride,  whom  most  detestable  death  had  beguiled 
him  of,  had  divorced  from  him  even  before  their  hands  were 
joined.  But  still  more  piteous  it  was  to  hear  the  mournings  of 
the  old  Lord  and  Lady  Capulet,  who  having  but  this  one,  one  poor 
loving  child  to  rejoice  and  solace  in,  cruel  death  had  snatched  her 
from  their  sight,  just  as  these  careful  parents  were  on  the  point  of 
seeing  her  advanced  (as  they  thought)  by  a  promising  and  ad- 
vantageous match.  Now  all  things  that  were  ordained  for  the 
festival  were  turned  from  their  properties  to  do  the  office  of  a 
black  funeral.  The  wedding  cheer  served  for  a  sad  burial  feast, 
the  bridal  hymns  were  changed  for  sullen  dirges,  the  sprightly 
instruments  to  melancholy  bells,  and  the  flowers  that  should  have 
been  strewed  in  the  bride's  path  now  served  but  to  strew  her  corse. 
Now,  instead  of  a  priest  to  marry  her,  a  priest  was  needed  to  bury 
her,  and  she  was  borne  to  church  indeed,  not  to  augment  the 
cheerful  hopes  of  the  living,  but  to  swell  the  dreary  numbers  of 
the  dead. 

Bad  news,  which  always  travels  faster  than  good,  now  brought 
the  dismal  story  of  his  Juliet's  death  to  Romeo,  at  Mantua, 
before  the  messenger  could  arrive  who  was  sent  from  Friar  Law- 
rence to  apprise  him  that  these  were  mock  funerals  only,  and  but 
the  shadow  and  representation  of  death,  and  that  his  dear  lady 
lay  in  the  tomb  but  for  a  short  while,  expecting  when  Romeo 
would  come  to  release  her  from  that  dreary  mansion.    Just  be- 

[  298  ] 


SHAKESPEARE 

fore,  Romeo  had  been  unusually  joyful  and  light-hearted.  He 
had  dreamed  in  the  night  that  he  was  dead  (a  strange  dream,  that 
gave  a  dead  man  leave  to  think)  and  that  his  lady  came  and  found 
him  dead,  and  breathed  such  life  with  kisses  in  his  lips  that  he 
revived  and  was  an  emperor!  And  now  that  a  messenger  came 
from  Verona,  he  thought  surely  it  was  to  confirm  some  good  news 
which  his  dreams  had  presaged.  But  when  the  contrary  to  this 
flattering  vision  appeared,  and  that  it  was  his  lady  who  was  dead 
in  truth,  whom  he  could  not  revive  by  any  kisses,  he  ordered 
horses  to  be  got  ready,  for  he  determined  that  night  to  visit 
Verona  and  to  see  his  lady  in  her  tomb.  And  as  mischief  is  swift 
to  enter  into  the  thoughts  of  desperate  men,  he  called  to  mind  a 
poor  apothecary,  whose  shop  in  Mantua  he  had  lately  passed, 
and  from  the  beggarly  appearance  of  the  man,  who  seemed  fam- 
ished, and  the  wretched  show  in  his  show  of  empty  boxes  ranged 
on  dirty  shelves,  and  other  tokens  of  extreme  wretchedness, 
he  had  said  at  the  time  (perhaps  having  some  misgivings  that 
his  own  disastrous  life  might  haply  meet  with  a  conclusion  so 
desperate) : 

"If  a  man  were  to  need  poison,  which  by  the  law  of  Mantua 
it  is  death  to  sell,  here  lives  a  poor  wretch  who  would  sell  it  him." 

These  words  of  his  now  came  into  his  mind  and  he  sought  out 
the  apothecary,  who  after  some  pretended  scruples,  Romeo  of- 
fering him  gold,  which  his  poverty  could  not  resist,  sold  him  a 
poison  which,  if  he  swallowed,  he  told  him,  if  he  had  the  strength 
of  twenty  men,  would  quickly  despatch  him. 

With  this  poison  he  set  out  for  Verona,  to  have  a  sight  of  his 
dear  lady  in  her  tomb,  meaning,  when  he  had  satisfied  his  sight, 
to  swallow  the  poison  and  be  buried  by  her  side.  He  reached 
Verona  at  midnight,  and  found  the  churchyard  in  the  midst  of 
which  was  situated  the  ancient  tomb  of  the  Capulets.  He  had 
provided  a  light,  and  a  spade,  and  wrenching-iron,  and  was  pro- 
ceeding to  break  open  the  monument  when  he  was  interrupted 
by  a  voice,  which  by  the  name  of  vile  Montague  bade  him  desist 
from  his  unlawful  business.     It  was  the  young  Count  Paris,  who 

[299] 


TALES    FROM 

had  come  to  the  tomb  of  Juliet  at  that  unseasonable  time  of  night 
to  strew  flowers  and  to  weep  over  the  grave  of  her  that  should 
have  been  his  bride.  He  knew  not  what  an  interest  Romeo  had 
in  the  dead,  but,  knowing  him  to  be  a  Montague  and  (as  he  sup- 
posed) a  sworn  foe  to  all  the  Capulets,  he  judged  that  he  was  come 
by  night  to  do  some  villainous  shame  to  the  dead  bodies;  there- 
fore in  an  angry  tone  he  bade  him  desist;  and  as  a  criminal, 
condemned  by  the  laws  of  Verona  to  die  if  he  were  found  within 
the  walls  of  the  city,  he  would  have  apprehended  him.  Romeo 
urged  Paris  to  leave  him,  and  warned  him  by  the  fate  of  Tybalt, 
who  lay  buried  there,  not  to  provoke  his  anger  or  draw  down  an- 
other sin  upon  his  head  by  forcing  him  to  kill  him.  But  the  count 
in  scorn  refused  his  warning,  and  laid  hands  on  him  as  a  felon, 
which,  Romeo  resisting,  they  fought,  and  Paris  fell.  When 
Romeo,  by  the  help  of  a  light,  came  to  see  who  it  was  that  he  had 
slain,  that  it  was  Paris,  who  (he  learned  in  his  way  from  Mantua) 
should  have  married  Juliet,  he  took  the  dead  youth  by  the  hand, 
as  one  whom  misfortune  had  made  a  companion,  and  said  that  he 
would  bury  him  in  a  triumphal  grave,  meaning  in  Juliet's  grave, 
which  he  now  opened.  And  there  lay  his  lady,  as  one  whom 
death  had  no  power  upon  to  change  a  feature  or  complexion,  in  her 
matchless  beauty;  or  as  if  death  were  amorous,  and  the  lean, 
abhorred  monster  kept  her  there  for  his  delight;  for  she  lay  yet 
fresh  and  blooming,  as  she  had  fallen  to  sleep  when  she  swallowed 
that  benumbing  potion;  and  near  her  lay  Tybalt  in  his  bloody 
shroud,  whom  Romeo  seeing,  begged  pardon  of  his  lifeless  corse, 
and  for  Juliet's  sake  called  him  cousin,  and  said  that  he  was  about 
to  do  him  a  favor  by  putting  his  enemy  to  death.  Here  Romeo 
took  his  last  leave  of  his  lady's  lips,  kissing  them;  and  here  he 
shook  the  burden  of  his  cross  stars  from  his  weary  body,  swallow- 
ing that  poison  which  the  apothecary  had  sold  him,  whose  opera- 
tion was  fatal  and  real,  not  like  that  dissembling  potion  which 
Juliet  had  swallowed,  the  effect  of  which  was  now  nearly  expiring, 
and  she  about  to  awake  to  complain  that  Romeo  had  not  kept 
his  time,  or  that  he  had  come  too  soon. 

[300I 


SHAKESPEARE 

For  now  the  hour  was  arrived  at  which  the  fjdar.had  promised 
that  she  should  awake;  and  he,  having  learned  that  his  letters 
which  he  had  sent  to  Mantua,  by  some  unlucky  detention  of  the 
messenger,  had  never  reached  Romeo,  came  himself,  provided 
with  a  pickax  and  lantern,  to  deliver  the  lady  from  her  confine- 
ment; but  he  was 
surprised  to  find  a 
light  already  burn- 
ing in  the  Capulets' 
monument,  and  to 
see  swords  and 
blood  near  it,  and 
Romeo  and  Paris 
lying  breathless  by 
the  monument. 

Before  he  could 
entertain  a  conjec- 
ture, to  imagine 
how  these  fatal  ac- 
cidents had  fallen 
out,  Juliet  awoke 
out  of  her  trance, 
and,  seeing  the  friar 
near  her,  she  re- 
membered the  place 
where  she  was,  and 
the  occasion  of  her 

being  there,  and  asked  for  Romeo,  but  the  friar,  hearing  a 
noise,  bade  her  come  out  of  that  place  of  death  and  of  un- 
natural sleep,  for  a  greater  power  than  they  could  contradict 
had  thwarted  their  intents;  and,  being  frightened  by  the  noise 
of  people  coming,  he  fled.  But  when  Juliet  saw  the  cup  closed 
in  her  true  love's  hands,  she  guessed  that  poison  had  been 
the  cause  of  his  end,  and  she  would  have  swallowed  the  dregs 
if  any  had  been  left,  and  she  kissed  his  still  warm  lips  to  try  if 

hoi] 


TALES    FROM 

any  poison  yet  did  hang  upon  them;  then  hearing  a  nearer  noise 
of  people  coming,  she  quickly  unsheathed  a  dagger  which  she  wore, 
and,  stabbing  herself,  died  by  her  true  Romeo's  side. 

The  watch  by  this  time  had  come  up  to  the  place.  A  page 
belonging  to  Count  Paris,  who  had  witnessed  the  fight  between  his 
master  and  Romeo,  had  given  the  alarm,  which  had  spread  among 
the  citizens,  who  went  up  and  down  the  streets  of  Verona  con- 
fusedly exclaiming,  "A  Paris!  a  Romeo!  a  Juliet!"  as  the  rumor 
had  imperfectly  reached  them,  till  the  uproar  brought  Lord 
Montague  and  Lord  Capulet  out  of  their  beds,  with  the  prince, 
to  inquire  into  the  causes  of  the  disturbance.  The  friar  had  been 
apprehended  by  some  of  the  watch,  coming  from  the  churchyard, 
trembling,  sighing,  and  weeping  in  a  suspicious  manner.  A  great 
multitude  being  assembled  at  the  Capulets*  monument,  the  friar 
was  demanded  by  the  prince  to  deliver  what  he  knew  of  these 
strange  and  disastrous  accidents. 

And  there,  in  the  presence  of  the  old  Lords  Montague  and 
Capulet,  he  faithfully  related  the  story  of  their  children's  fatal 
love,  the  part  he  took  in  promoting  their  marriage,  in  the  hope  in 
that  union  to  end  the  long  quarrels  between  their  families;  how 
Romeo,  there  dead,  was  husband  to  Juliet,  and  Juliet,  there  dead, 
was  Romeo's  faithful  wife;  how,  before  he  could  find  a  fit  oppor- 
tunity to  divulge  their  marriage,  another  match  was  projected  for 
Juliet,  who,  to  avoid  the  crime  of  a  second  marriage,  swallowed 
the  sleeping-draught  (as  he  advised),  and  all  thought  her  dead;  how 
meantime  he  wrote  to  Romeo  to  come  and  take  her  thence  when 
the  force  of  the  potion  should  cease,  and  by  what  unfortunate 
miscarriage  of  the  messenger  the  letters  never  reached  Romeo. 
Further  than  this  the  friar  could  not  follow  the  story,  nor  knew 
more  than  that,  coming  himself  to  deliver  Juliet  from  that  place 
of  death,  he  found  the  Count  Paris  and  Romeo  slain.  The  remain- 
der of  the  transactions  was  supplied  by  the  narration  of  the  page 
who  had  seen  Paris  and  Romeo  fight,  and  by  the  servant  who 
came  with  Romeo  from  Verona,  to  whom  this  faithful  lover  had* 
given  letters  to  be  delivered  to  his  father  in  the  event  of  his 

[  302  ] 


SHAKESPEARE 

death,  which  made  good  the  friar's  words,  confessing  his  marriage 
with  Juliet,  imploring  the  forgiveness  of  his  parents,  acknowledg- 
ing the  buying  of  the  poison  of  the  poor  apothecary  and  his  intent 
in  coming  to  the  monument  to  die  and  lie  with  Juliet.  All  these 
circumstances  agreed  together  to  clear  the  friar  from  any  hand 
he  could  be  supposed  to  have  in  these  complicated  slaughters, 
further  than  as  the  unintended  consequences  of  his  own  well- 
meant,  yet  too  artificial  and  subtle  contrivances. 

And  the  prince,  turning  to  these  old  lords,  Montague  and 
Capulet,  rebuked  them  for  their  brutal  and  irrational  enmities, 
and  showed  them  what  a  scourge  Heaven  had  laid  upon  such 
offenses,  that  it  had  found  means  even  through  the  love  of  their 
children  to  punish  their  unnatural  hate.  And  these  old  rivals, 
no  longer  enemies,  agreed  to  bury  their  long  strife  in  their  chil- 
dren's graves;  and  Lord  Capulet  requested  Lord  Montague  to 
give  him  his  hand,  calling  him  by  the  name  of  brother,  as  if  in 
acknowledgment  of  the  union  of  their  families  by  the  marriage  of 
the  young  Capulet  and  Montague;  and  saying  that  Lord  Monta- 
gue's hand  (in  token  of  reconcilement)  was  all  he  demanded  for 
his  daughter's  jointure.  But  Lord  Montague  said  he  would  give 
him  more,  for  he  would  raise  her  a  statue  of  pure  gold  that,  while 
Verona  kept  its  name,  no  figure  should  be  so  esteemed  for  its 
richness  and  workmanship  as  that  of  the  true  and  faithful  Juliet. 
And  Lord  Capulet  in  return  said  that  he  would  raise  another  statue 
to  Romeo.  So  did  these  poor  old  lords,  when  it  was  too  late,  strive 
to  outgo  each  other  in  mutual  courtesies;  while  so  deadly  had 
been  their  rage  and  enmity  in  past  times  that  nothing  but  the 
fearful  overthrow  of  their  children  (poor  sacrifices  to  their  quar- 
rels and  dissensions)  could  remove  the  rooted  hates  and  jealousies 
of  the  noble  families. 


TALES    FROM 


HAMLET,    PRINCE   OF   DENMARK 

jERTRUDE,  Queen  of  Denmark,  becom- 
ing a  widow  by  the  sudden  death  of 
King  Hamlet,  in  less  than  two  months 
after  his  death  married  his  brother 
Claudius,  which  was  noted  by  all  people 
at  the  time  for  a  strange  act  of  indiscre- 
tion, or  unfeelingness,  or  worse;  for  this 
Claudius  did  no  way  resemble  her  late 
husband  in  the  qualities  of  his  person  or 
his  mind,  but  was  as  contemptible  in  outward  appearance  as  he  was 
base  and  unworthy  in  disposition;  and  suspicions  did  not  fail  to 
arise  in  the  minds  of  some  that  he  had  privately  made  away  with 
his  brother,  the  late  king,  with  the  view  of  marrying  his  widow 
and  ascending  the  throne  of  Denmark,  to  the  exclusion  of  young 
Hamlet,  the  son  of  the  buried  king  and  lawful  successor  to  the 
throne. 

But  upon  no  one  did  this  unadvised  action  of  the  queen  make 
such  impression  as  upon  this  young  prince,  who  loved  and  ven- 
erated the  memory  of  his  dead  father  almost  to  idolatry,  and, 
being  of  a  nice  sense  of  honor  and  a  most  exquisite  practiser  of 
propriety  himself,  did  sorely  take  to  heart  this  unworthy  conduct 
of  his  mother  Gertrude;  in  so  much  that,  between  grief  for  his 
father's  death  and  shame  for  his  mother's  marriage,  this  young 
prince  was  overclouded  with  a  deep  melancholy,  and  lost  all  his 
mirth  and  all  his  good  looks;  all  his  customary  pleasure  in  books 
forsook  him,  his  princely  exercises  and  sports,  proper  to  his 
youth,  were  no  longer  acceptable;  he  grew  weary  of  the  world, 
which  seemed  to  him  an  unweeded  garden,  where  all  the  whole- 
some flowers  were  choked  up  and  nothing  but  weeds  could  thrive. 

[304] 


/ 


SHAKESPEARE 

Not  that  the  prospect  of  exclusion  from  the  throne,  his  lawful 
inheritance,  weighed  so  much  upon  his  spirits,  though  that  to  a 
young  and  high-minded  prince  was  a  bitter  wound  and  a  sore 
indignity;  but  what  so  galled  him  and  took  away  all  his  cheerful 
spirits  was  that  his  mother  had  shown  herself  so  forgetful  to  his 
father's  memory,  and  such  a  father!  who  had  been  to  her  so  loving 
and  so  gentle  a  husband !  and  then  she  always  appeared  as  loving 
and  obedient  a  wife  to  him,  and  would  hang  upon  him  as  if  her 
affection  grew  to  him.  And  now  within  two  months,  or,  as  it 
seemed  to  young  Hamlet,  less  than  two  months,  she  had  married 
again,  married  his  uncle,  her  dear  husband's  brother,  in  itself  a 
highly  improper  and  unlawful  marriage,  from  the  nearness  of 
relationship,  but  made  much  more  so  by  the  indecent  haste  with 
which  it  was  concluded  and  the  unkingly  character  of  the  man 
whom  she  had  chosen  to  be  the  partner  of  her  throne  and  bed. 
This  it  was  which  more  than  the  loss  of  ten  kingdoms  dashed  the 
spirits  and  brought  a  cloud  over  the  mind  of  this  honorable  young 
prince. 

In  vain  was  all  that  his  mother  Gertrude  or  the  king  could  do 
to  contrive  to  divert  him;  he  still  appeared  in  court  in  a  suit  of 
deep  black,  as  mourning  for  the  king  his  father's  death,  which 
mode  of  dress  he  had  never  laid  aside,  not  even  in  compliment  to 
his  mother  upon  the  day  she  was  married,  nor  could  he  be  brought 
to  join  in  any  of  the  festivities  or  rejoicings  of  that  (as  appeared 
to  him)  disgraceful  day. 

What  mostly  troubled  him  was  an  uncertainty  about  the  man- 
ner of  his  father's  death.  It  was  given  out  by  Claudius  that  a 
serpent  had  stung  him;  but  young  Hamlet  had  shrewd  suspi- 
cions that  Claudius  himself  was  the  serpent;  in  plain  English, 
that  he  had  murdered  him  for  his  crown,  and  that  the  serpent 
who  stung  his  father  did  now  sit  on  the  throne. 

How  far  he  was  right  in  this  conjecture  and  what  he  ought  to 
think  of  his  mother,  how  far  she  was  privy  to  this  murder  and 
whether  by  her  consent  or  knowledge,  or  without,  it  came  to  pass, 
were  the  doubts  which  continually  harassed  and  distracted  him. 

20  [ 30S  ] 


TALES    FROM 

A  rumor  had  reached  the  ear  of  young  Hamlet  that  an  appari-' 
tion,  exactly  resembling  the  dead  king  his  father,  had  been  seen 
by  the  soldiers  upon  watch,  on  the  platform  before  the  palace 
at  midnight,  for  two  or  three  nights  successively.  The  figure  came 
constantly  clad  in  the  same  suit  of  armor,  from  head  to  foot,  which 
the  dead  king  was  known  to  have  worn.  And  they  who  saw  it 
(Hamlet's  bosom  friend  Horatio  was  one)  agreed  in  their  testi- 
mony as  to  the  time  and  manner  of  its  appearance — that  it  came 
just  as  the  clock  struck  twelve;  that  it  looked  pale,  with  a  face 
more  of  sorrow  than  of  anger;  that  its  beard  was  grisly,  and  the 
color  a  sable  silvered,  as  they  had  seen  it  in  his  lifetime;  that  it 
made  no  answer  when  they  spoke  to  it;  yet  once  they  thought 
it  lifted  up  its  head  and  addressed  itself  to  motion,  as  if  it  were 
about  to  speak;  but  in  that  moment  the  morning  cock  crew  and 
it  shrank  in  haste  away,  and  vanished  out  of  their  sight. 

The  young  prince,  strangely  amazed  at  their  relation,  which 
was  too  consistent  and  agreeing  with  itself  to  disbelieve,  con- 
cluded that  it  was  his  father's  ghost  which  they  had  seen,  and  de- 
termined to  take  his  watch  with  the  soldiers  that  night,  that  he 
might  have  a  chance  of  seeing  it;  for  he  reasoned  with  himself 
that  such  an  appearance  did  not  come  for  nothing,  but  that  the 
ghost  had  something  to  impart,  and  though  it  had  been  silent 
hitherto,  yet  it  would  speak  to  him.  And  he  waited  with  impa- 
tience for  the  coming  of  night. 

When  night  came  he  took  his  stand  with  Horatio,  and  Marcel- 
lus,  one  of  the  guard,  upon  the  platform,  where  this  apparition 
Was  accustomed  to  walk;  and  it  being  a  cold  night,  and  the  air 
unusually  raw  and  nipping,  Hamlet  and  Horatio  and  their  com- 
panion fell  into  some  talk  about  the  coldness  of  the  night,  which 
was  suddenly  broken  off"  by  Horatio  announcing  that  the  ghost 
was  coming. 

At  the  sight  of  his  father's  spirit  Hamlet  was  struck  with  a 
sudden  surprise  and  fear.  He  at  first  called  upon  the  angels  and 
heavenly  ministers  to  defend  them,  for  he  knew  not  whether  it 

were  a  good  spirit  or  bad,  whether  it  came  for  good  or  evil;   but 

[306] 


"STILL  AM  I  CALLED.    UNHAND  ME,  GENTLEMEN!    BY 
HEAVEN,  I'LL  MAKE  A  GHOST  OF  HIM  THAT  LETS  ME!" 


SHAKESPEARE 

he  gradually  assumed  more  courage;  and  his  father  (as  it  seemed 
to  him)  looked  upon  him  so  piteously,  and  as  it  were  desiring  to 
have  conversation  with  him,  and  did  in  all  respects  appear  so 
like  himself  as  he  was  when  he  lived,  that  Hamlet  could  not  help 
addressing  him.  He  called  him  by  his  name,  "Hamlet,  King, 
Father!"  and  conjured  him  that  he  would  tell  the  reason  why  he 
had  left  his  grave,  where  they  had  seen  him  quietly  bestowed, 
to  come  again  and  visit  the  earth  and  the  moonlight;  and  be- 
sought him  that  he  would  let  them  know  if  there  was  anything 
which  they  could  do  to  give  peace  to  his  spirit.  And  the  ghost 
beckoned  to  Hamlet,  that  he  should  go  with  him  to  some  more 
removed  place  where  they  might  be  alone;  and  Horatio  and  Mar- 
cellus  would  have  dissuaded  the  young  prince  from  following  it, 
for  they  feared  lest  it  should  be  some  evil  spirit  who  would  tempt 
him  to  the  neighboring  sea  or  to  the  top  of  some  dreadful  cliff, 
and  there  put  on  some  horrible  shape  which  might  deprive  the 
prince  of  his  reason.  But  their  counsels  and  entreaties  could  not 
alter  Hamlet's  determination,  who  cared  too  little  about  life  to 
fear  the  losing  of  it;  and  as  to  his  soul,  he  said,  what  could  the 
spirit  do  to  that,  being  a  thing  immortal  as  itself?  And  he  felt 
as  hardy  as  a  lion,  and,  bursting  from  them,  who  did  all  they 
could  to  hold  him,  he  followed  whithersoever  the  spirit  led  him. 

And  when  they  were  alone  together,  the  spirit  broke  silence 
and  told  him  that  he  was  the  ghost  of  Hamlet,  his  father,  who  had 
been  cruelly  murdered,  and  he  told  the  manner  of  it;  that  it 
was  done  by  his  own  brother  Claudius,  Hamlet's  uncle,  as  Hamlet 
had  already  but  too  much  suspected,  for  the  hope  of  succeeding 
to  his  bed  and  crown.  That  as  he  was  sleeping  in  his  garden,  his 
custom  always  in  the  afternoon,  his  treasonous  brother  stole  upon 
him  in  his  sleep  and  poured  the  juice  of  poisonous  henbane  into 
his  ears,  which  has  such  an  antipathy  to  the  life  of  man  that, 
swift  as  quicksilver,  it  courses  through  all  the  veins  of  the  body, 
baking  up  the  blood  and  spreading  a  crust-like  leprosy  all  over 
the  skin.  Thus  sleeping,  by  a  brother's  hand  he  was  cut  off  at 
once  from  his  crown,  his  queen,  and  his  life;  and  he  adjured 

[309] 


TALES    FROM 

Hamlet,  if  he  did  ever  his  dear  father  love,  that  he  would  revenge 
his  foul  murder.  And  the  ghost  lamented  to  his  son  that  his 
mother  should  so  fall  off  from  virtue  as  to  prove  false  to  the 
wedded  love  of  her  first  husband  and  to  marry  his  murderer; 
but  he  cautioned  Hamlet,  howsoever  he  proceeded  in  his  revenge 
against  his  wicked  uncle,  by  no  means  to  act  any  violence  against 
the  person  of  his  mother,  but  to  leave  her  to  Heaven,  and  to  the 
stings  and  thorns  of  conscience.  And  Hamlet  promised  to  ob- 
serve the  ghost's  direction  in  all  things,  and  the  ghost  vanished. 

And  when  Hamlet  was  left  alone  he  took  up  a  solemn  resolution 
that  all  he  had  in  his  memory,  all  that  he  had  ever  learned  by 
books  or  observation,  should  be  instantly  forgotten  by  him,  and 
nothing  live  in  his  brain  but  the  memory  of  what  the  ghost  had 
told  him  and  enjoined  him  to  do.  And  Hamlet  related  the 
particulars  of  the  conversation  which  had  passed  to  none  but 
his  dear  friend  Horatio;  and  he  enjoined  both  to  him  and 
Marcellus  the  strictest  secrecy  as  to  what  they  had  seen  that 
night. 

The  terror  which  the  sight  of  the  ghost  had  left  upon  the  senses 
of  Hamlet,  he  being  weak  and  dispirited  before,  almost  unhinged 
his  mind  and  drove  him  beside  his  reason.  And  he,  fearing  that 
it  would  continue  to  have  this  effect,  which  might  subject  him  to 
observation  and  set  his  uncle  upon  his  guard,  if  he  suspected  that 
he  was  meditating  anything  against  him,  or  that  Hamlet  really 
knew  more  of  his  father's  death  than  he  professed,  took  up  a 
strange  resolution,  from  that  time  to  counterfeit  as  if  he  were 
really  and  truly  mad;  thinking  that  he  would  be  less  an  object  of 
suspicion  when  his  uncle  should  believe  him  incapable  of  any 
serious  project,  and  that  his  real  perturbation  of  mind  would  be 
best  covered  and  pass  concealed  under  a  disguise  of  pretended 
lunacy. 

From  this  time  Hamlet  affected  a  certain  wildness  and  strange- 
ness in  his  apparel,  his  speech,  and  behavior,  and  did  so  excel- 
lently counterfeit  the  madman  that  the  king  and  queen  were  both 
deceived,  and  not  thinking  his  grief  for  his  father's  death  a  sufE- 

[310] 


SHAKESPEARE 

cient  cause  to  produce  such  a  distemper,  for  they  knew  not  of 
the  appearance  of  the  ghost,  they  concluded  that  his  malady 
was  love  and  they  thought  they  had  found  out  the  object. 

Before  Hamlet  fell  into  the  melancholy  way  which  has  been 
relatedTie  had  dearly  loved  a  fair  maid  called  Ophelia,  the  daugh- 


ter of  Polonius,  the  king's  chief  counselor  in  affairs  of  state.  He 
had  sent  her  letters  and  rings,  and  made  many  tenders  of  his 
affection  to  her,  and  importuned  her  with  love  in  honorable 
fashion;  and  she  had  given  belief  to  his  vows  and  importunities. 
But  the  melancholy  which  he  fell  into  latterly  had  made  him 
neglect  her,  and  from  the  time  he  conceived  the  project  of  counter- 
feiting madness  he  affected  to  treat  her  with  unkindness  and  a 
sort  of  rudeness;   but  she,  good  lady,  rather  than  reproach  him 

13H] 


TALES    FROM 

with  being  false  to  her,  persuaded  herself  that  it  was  nothing  but 
the  disease  in  his  mind,  and  no  settled  unkindness,  which  had 
made  him  less  observant  of  her  than  formerly;  and  she  compared 
the  faculties  of  his  once  noble  mind  and  excellent  understanding, 
impaired  as  they  were  with  the  deep  melancholy  that  oppressed 
him,  to  sweet  bells  which  in  themselves  are  capable  of  most  ex- 
quisite music,  but  when  jangled  out  of  tune,  or  rudely  handled, 
produce  only  a  harsh  and  unpleasing  sound.  ^ 

Though  the  rough  business  which  Hamlet  had  in  hand,  the 
revenging  of  his  father's  death  upon  his  murderer,  did  not  suit 
with  the  playful  state  of  courtship,  or  admit  of  the  society  of  so 
idle  a  passion  as  love  now  seemed  to  him,  yet  it  could  not  hinder 
but  that  soft  thoughts  of  his  Ophelia  would  come  between,  and 
in  one  of  these  moments,  when  he  thought  that  his  treatment  of 
this  gentle  lady  had  been  unreasonably  harsh,  he  wrote  her  a 
letter  full  of  wild  starts  of  passion,  and  in  extravagant  terms;  such 
as  agreed  with  his  supposed  madness,  but  mixed  with  some  gentle 
touches  of  affection,  which  could  not  but  show  to  this  honored 
lady  that  a  deep  love  for  her  yet  lay  at  the  bottom  of  his  heart. 
He  bade  her  to  doubt  the  stars  were  fire,  and  to  doubt  that  the  sun 
did  move,  to  doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar,  but  never  to  doubt  that  he 
loved;  with  more  of  such  extravagant  phrases.  This  letter 
Ophelia  dutifully  showed  to  her  father,  and  the  old  man  thought 
himself  bound  to  communicate  it  to  the  king  and  queen,  who  from 
that  time  supposed  that  the  true  cause  of  Hamlet's  madness  was 
love.  And  the  queen  wished  that  the  good  beauties  of  Ophelia 
might  be  the  happy  cause  of  his  wildness,  for  so  she  hoped  that 
her  virtues  might  happily  restore  him  to  his  accustomed  way 
again,  to  both  their  honors. 

|  But  Hamlet's  malady  lay  deeper  than  she  supposed,  or  than 
could  be  so  cured.  His  father's  ghost,  which  he  had  seen,  still 
haunted  his  imagination,  and  the  sacred  injunction  to  revenge 
his  murder  gave  him  no  rest  till  it  was  accomplished.  Every  hour 
of  delay  seemed  to  him  a  sin  and  a  violation  of  his  father's  com- 
mands.   Yet  how  to  compass  the  death  of  the  king,  surrounded 

[312] 


SHAKESPEARE 

as  he  constantly  was  with  his  guards,  was  no  easy  matter.  Or  if 
it  had  been,  the  presence  of  the  queen,  Hamlet's  mother,  who  was 
generally  with  the  king,  was  a  restraint  upon  his  purpose,  which . 
he  could  not  break  through.  Besides,  the  very  circumstance 
that  the  usurper  was  his  mother's  husband  filled  him  with  some 
remOrse  and  still  blunted  the  edge  of  his  purpose.  The  mere  act 
of  putting  a  fellow-creature  to  death  was  in  itself  odious  and  ter- 
rible to  a  disposition  naturally  so  gentle  as  Hamlet's  was.  His 
very  melancholy,  and  the  dejection  of  spirits  he  had  so  long  been 
in,  produced  an  irresoluteness  and  wavering  of  purpose  which 
kept  him  from  proceeding  to  extremities.  Moreover,  he  could 
not  help  having  some  scruples  upon  his  mind,  whether  the  spirit 
which  he  had  seen  was  indeed  his  father,  or  whether  it  might  not 
be  the  devil,  who  he  had  heard  has  power  to  take  any  form  he 
pleases,  and  who  might  have  assumed  his  father's  shape  only  to 
take  advantage  of  his  weakness  and  his  melancholy,  to  drive  him 
to  the  doing  of  so  desperate  an  act  as  murder.  And  he  determined 
that  he  would  have  more  certain  grounds  to  go  upon  than  a 
vision,  or  apparition,  which  might  be  a  delusion. 

While  he  was  in  this  irresolute  mind  there  came  to  the  court 
certain  players,  in  whom  Hamlet  formerly  used  to  take  delight, 
and  particularly  to  hear  one  of  them  speak  a  tragical  speech, 
describing  the  death  of  old  Priam,  King  of  Troy,  with  the  grief 
of  Hecuba  his  queen.  Hamlet  welcomed  his  old  friends,  the 
players,  and  remembering  how  that  speech  had  formerly  given 
him  pleasure,  requested  the  player  to  repeat  it;  which  he  did  in 
so  lively  a  manner,  setting  forth  the  cruel  murder  of  the  feeble 
old  king,  with  the  destruction  of  his  people  and  city  by  fire,  and  the 
mad  grief  of  the  old  queen,  running  barefoot  up  and  down  the 
palace,  with  a  poor  clout  upon  that  head  where  a  crown  had 
been,  and  with  nothing  but  a  blanket  upon  her  loins,  snatched 
up  in  haste,  where  she  had  worn  a  royal  robe;  that  not  only  it 
drew  tears  from  all  that  stood  by,  who  thought  they  saw  the  real 
scene,  so  lively  was  it  represented,  but  even  the  player  himself 
delivered  it  with  a  broken  voice  and  real  tears.    This  put  Ham- 

[313] 


TA  L  E  S    FROM 

let  upon  thinking,  if  that  player  could  so  work  himself  up  to  pas- 
sion by  a  mere  fictitious  speech,  to  weep  for  one  that  he  had  never 
seen,  for  Hecuba,  that  had  been  dead  so  many  hundred  years, 
how  dull  was  he,  who  having  a  real  motive  and  cue  for  passion,  a 
real  king  and  a  dear  father  murdered,  was  yet  so  little  moved 
that  his  revenge  all  this  while  had  seemed  to  have  slept  in  dull 
and  muddy  forgetfulness !  and  while  he  meditated  on  actors  and 
acting,  and  the  powerful  effects  which  a  good  play,  represented 
to  the  life,  has  upon  the  spectator,  he  remembered  the  instance  of 
some  murderer,  who,  seeing  a  murder  on  the  stage,  was  by  the 
mere  force  of  the  scene  and  resemblance  of  circumstances  so 
affected  that  on  the  spot  he  confessed  the  crime  which  he  had 
committed.  And  he  determined  that  these  players  should  play 
something  like  the  murder  of  his  father  before  his  uncle,  and  he 
would  watch  narrowly  what  effect  it  might  have  upon  him,  and 
from  his  looks  he  would  be  able  to  gather  with  more  certainty  if 
he  were  the  murderer  or  not.  To  this  effect  he  ordered  a  play  to 
be  prepared,  to  the  representation  of  which  he  invited  the  king 
and  queen. 

The  story  of  the  play  was  of  a  murder  done  in  Vienna  upon  a 
duke.  The  duke's  name  was  Gonzago,  his  wife's  Baptista.  The 
play  showed  how  one  Lucianus,  a  near  relation  to  the  duke, 
poisoned  him  in  his  garden  for  his  estate,  and  how  the  murderer 
in  a  short  time  after  got  the  love  of  Gonzago's  wife. 

At  the  representation  of  this  play,  the  king,  who  did  not  know 
the  trap  which  was  laid  for  him,  was  present,  with  his  queen  and 
the  whole  court;  Hamlet  sitting  attentively  near  him  to  observe 
his  looks.  The  play  began  with  a  conversation  between  Gonzago 
and  his  wife,  in  which  the  lady  made  many  protestations  of  love, 
and  of  never  marrying  a  second  husband  if  she  should  outlive 
Gonzago,  wishing  she  might  be  accursed  if  she  ever  took  a  second 
husband,  and  adding  that  no  woman  did  so  but  those  wicked 
women  who  kill  their  first  husbands.  Hamlet  observed  the  king 
his  uncle  change  color  at  this  expression,  and  that  it  was  as  bad 
as  wormwood  both  to  him  and  to  the  queen.    But  when  Lucianus, 

[314] 


SHAKESPEARE 

according  to  the  story,  came  to  poison  Gonzago  sleeping  in  the 
garden,  the  strong  resemblance  which  it  bore  to  his  own  wicked 
act  upon  the  late  king,  his  brother,  whom  he  had  poisoned  in  his 
garden,  so  struck  upon  the  conscience  of  this  usurper  that  he  was 
unable  to  sit  out  the  rest  of  the  play,  but  on  a  sudden  calling  for 
lights  to  his  chamber,  and  afFecting  or  partly  feeling  a  sudden 
sickness,  he  abruptly  left  the  theater.  The  king  being  departed, 
the  play  was  given  over.  Now  Hamlet  had  seen  enough  to  be 
satisfied  that  the  words  of  the  ghost  were  true  and  no  illusion; 
and  in  a  fit  of  gaiety,  like  that  which  comes  over  a  man  who 
suddenly  has  some  great  doubt  or  scruple  resolved,  he  swore  to 
Horatio  that  he  would  take  the  ghost's  word  for  a  thousand 
pounds.  But  before  he  could  make  up  his  resolution  as  to 
what  measures  of  revenge  he  should  take,  now  he  was  cer- 
tainly informed  that  his  uncle  was  his  father's  murderer,  he 
was  sent  for  by  the  queen  his  mother,  to  a  private  conference 
in  her  closet. 

It  was  by  desire  of  the  king  that  the  queen  sent  for  Hamlet, 
that  she  might  signify  to  her  son  how  much  his  late  behavior 
had  displeased  them  both,  and  the  king,  wishing  to  know  all  that 
passed  at  that  conference,  and  thinking  that  the  too  partial 
report  of  a  mother  might  let  slip  some  part  of  Hamlet's  words, 
which  it  might  much  import  the  king  to  know,  Polonius,  the  old 
counselor  of  state,  was  ordered  to  plant  himself  behind  the  hang- 
ings in  the  queen's  closet,  where  he  might,  unseen,  hear  all  that 
passed.  This  artifice  was  particularly  adapted  to  the  disposition 
of  Polonius,  who  was  a  man  grown  old  in  crooked  maxims  and 
policies  of  state,  and  delighted  to  get  at  the  knowledge  of  matters 
in  an  indirect  and  cunning  way. 

Hamlet  being  come  to  his  mother,  she  began  to  tax  him  in  the 
roundest  way  with  his  actions  and  behavior,  and  she  told  him  that 
he  had  given  great  offense  to  his  father,  meaning  the  king,  his 
uncle,  whom,  because  he  had  married  her,  she  called  Hamlet's 
father.  Hamlet,  sorely  indignant  that  she  should  give  so  dear 
and  honored  a  name  as  father  seemed  to  him  to  a  wretch  who  was 

[3i5] 


TALES    FROM 

indeed  no  better  than  the  murderer  of  his  true  father,  with  some 
sharpness  replied: 

"Mother,  you  have  much  offended  my  father ." 

The  queen  said  that  was  but  an  idle  answer. 

"As  good  as  the  question  deserved,"  said  Hamlet. 

The  queen  asked  him  if  he  had  forgotten  who  it  was  he  was 
speaking  to. 

"Alas!"  replied  Hamlet,  "I  wish  I  could  forget.  You  are  the 
queen,  your  husband's  brother's  wife;  and  you  are  my  mother. 
I  wish  you  were  not  what  you  are." 

"Nay,  then,"  said  the  queen,  "if  you  show  me  so  little  respect, 
I  will  set  those  to  you  that  can  speak,"  and  was  going  to  send 
the  king  or  Polonius  to  him. 

But  Hamlet  would  not  let  her  go,  now  he  had  her  alone,  till 
he  had  tried  if  his  words  could  not  bring  her  to  some  sense  of  her 
wicked  life;  and,  taking  her  by  the  wrist,  he  held  her  fast,  and 
made  her  sit  down.  She,  affrighted  at  his  earnest  manner,  and 
fearful  lest  in  his  lunacy  he  should  do  her  a  mischief,  cried  out; 
and  a  voice  was  heard  from  behind  the  hangings,  "Help,  help, 
the  queen!"  which  Hamlet  hearing,  and  verily  thinking  that  it 
was  the  king  himself  there  concealed,  he  drew  his  sword  and 
stabbed  at  the  place  where  the  voice  came  from,  as  he  would  have 
stabbed  a  rat  that  ran  there,  till,  the  voice  ceasing,  he  concluded 
the  person  to  be  dead.  But  when  he  dragged  forth  the  body  it 
was  not  the  king,  but  Polonius,  the  old,  officious  counselor,  that 
had  planted  himself  as  a  spy  behind  the  hangings. 

"Oh,  me!"  exclaimed  the  queen,  "what  a  rash  and  bloody  deed 
have  you  done!" 

"A  bloody  deed,  mother,"  replied  Hamlet,  "but  not  so  bad 
as  yours,  who  killed  a  king,  and  married  his  brother." 

Hamlet  had  gone  too  far  to  leave  off  here.  He  was  now  in  the 
humor  to  speak  plainly  to  his  mother,  and  he  pursued  it.  And 
though  the  faults  of  parents  are  to  be  tenderly  treated  by  their 
children,  yet  in  the  case  of  great  crimes  the  son  may  have  leave 
to  speak  even  to  his  own  mother  with  some  harshness,  so  as  that 

[3i6] 


SHAKESPEARE 

harshness  is  meant  for  her  good  and  to  turn  her  from  her  wicked 
ways,  and  not  done  for  the  purpose  of  upbraiding.  And  now  this 
virtuous  prince  did  in  moving  terms  represent  to  the  queen  the 
heinousness  of  her  offense  in  being  so  forgetful  of  the  dead  king, 
his  father,  as  in  so  short  a  space  of  time  to  marry  with  his  brother 


and  reputed  murderer.  Such  an  act  as,  after  the  vows  which  she 
had  sworn  to  her  first  husband,  was  enough  to  make  all  vows  of 
women  suspected  and  all  virtue  to  be  accounted  hypocrisy,  wed- 
ding contracts  to  be  less  than  gamesters'  oaths,  and  religion  to  be 
a  mockery  and  a  mere  form  of  words.  He  said  she  had  done  such 
a  deed  that  the  heavens  blushed  at  it,  and  the  earth  was  sick  of 
her  because  of  it.  And  he  showed  her  two  pictures,  the  one  of 
the  late  king,  her  first  husband,  and  the  other  of  the  present 
king,  her  second  husband,  and  he  bade  her  mark  the  difference; 

[317] 


TALES    FROM 

what  a  grace  was  on  the  brow  of  his  father,  how  like  a  god  he 
looked !  the  curls  of  Apollo,  the  forehead  of  Jupiter,  the  eye  of 
Mars,  and  a  posture  like  to  Mercury  newly  alighted  on  some 
heaven-kissing  hill!  this  man,  he  said,  had  been  her  husband. 
And  then  he  showed  her  whom  she  had  got  in  his  stead;  how  like 
a  blight  or  a  mildew  he  looked,  for  so  he  had  blasted  his  whole- 
some brother.  And  the  queen  was  sore  ashamed  that  he  should 
so  turn  her  eyes  inward  upon  her  soul,  which  she  now  saw  so 
black  and  deformed.  And  he  asked  her  how  she  could  continue 
to  live  with  this  man,  and  be  a  wife  to  him,  who  had  murdered 
her  first  husband  and  got  the  crown  by  as  false  means  as  a  thief — 
and  just  as  he  spoke  the  ghost  of  his  father,  such  as  he  was  in 
his  lifetime  and  such  as  he  had  lately  seen  it,  entered  the  room, 
and  Hamlet,  in  great  terror,  asked  what  it  would  have;  and  the 
ghost  said  that  it  came  to  remind  him  of  the  revenge  he  had 
promised,  which  Hamlet  seemed  to  have  forgot;  and  the  ghost 
bade  him  speak  to  his  mother,  for  the  grief  and  terror  she  was' 
in  would  else  kill  her.  It  then  vanished,  and  was  seen  by  none 
but  Hamlet,  neither  could  he  by  pointing  to  where  it  stood,  or 
by  any  description,  make  his  mother  perceive  it,  who  was  ter- 
ribly frightened  all  this  while  to  hear  him  conversing,  as  it  seemed 
to  her,  with  nothing;  and  she  imputed  it  to  the  disorder  of  his 
mind.  But  Hamlet  begged  her  not  to  flatter  her  wicked  soul  in 
such  a  manner  as  to  think  that  it  was  his  madness,  and  not  her 
own  offenses,  which  had  brought  his  father's  spirit  again  on  the 
earth.  And  he  bade  her  feel  his  pulse,  how  temperately  it  beat, 
not  like  a  madman's.  And  he  begged  of  her,  with  tears,  to  con- 
fess herself  to  Heaven  for  what  was  past,  and  for  the  future  to 
avoid  the  company  of  the  king  and  be  no  more  as  a  wife  to  him; 
and  when  she  should  show  herself  a  mother  to  him,  by  respecting 
his  father's  memory,  he  would  ask  a  blessing  of  her  as  a  son. 
And  she  promising  to  observe  his  directions,  the  conference  ended. 
And  now  Hamlet  was  at  leisure  to  consider  who  it  was  that  in 
his  unfortunate  rashness  he  had  killed;  and  when  he  came  to  see 
that  it  was  Polonius,  the  father  of  the  Lady  Ophelia  whom  he  so 

-rem- 


"WHOSE   SKULL   IS  THIS?' 


SHAKESPEARE 

dearly  loved,  he  drew  apart  the  dead  body,  and,  his  spirits  being 
now  a  little  quieter^he  wept  for  what  he  had  done. 

The  unfortunate  death  of  Polonius  gave  the  king  a  pretense  for 
sending  Hamlet  out  of  the  kingdom.  He  would  willingly  have  put 
him  to  death,  fearing  him  as  dangerous;  but  he  dreaded  the  peo- 
ple, who  loved  Hamlet,  and  the  queen,  who,  with  all  her  faults, 
doted  upon  the  prince,  her  son.  So  this  subtle  king,  under  pre- 
tense of  providing  for  Hamlet's  safety,  that  he  might  not  be  called 
to  account  for  Polonius's  death,  caused  him  to  be  conveyed  on 
board  a  ship  bound  for  England,  under  the  care  of  two  courtiers, 
by  whom  he  despatched  letters  to  the  English  court,  which  in 
that  time  was  in  subjection  and  paid  tribute  to  Denmark,  requir- 
ing, for  special  reasons  there  pretended,  that  Hamlet  should  be 
put  to  death  as  soon  as  he  landed  on  English  ground.  Hamlet, 
suspecting  some  treachery,  in  the  nighttime  secretly  got  at  the 
letters,  and,  skilfully  erasing  his  own  name,  he  in  the  stead  of  it 
put  in  the  names  of  those  two  courtiers,  who  had  the  charge  of 
him,  to  be  put  to  death;  then  sealing  up  the  letters,  he  put  them 
into  their  place  again.  Soon  after  the  ship  was  attacked  by  pirates, 
and  a  sea-fight  commenced,  in  the  course  of  which  Hamlet,  de- 
sirous to  show  his  valor,  with  sword  in  hand  singly  boarded  the 
enemy's  vessel;  while  his  own  ship,  in  a  cowardly  manner,  bore 
away;  and  leaving  him  to  his  fate,  the  two  courtiers  made  the 
best  of  their  way  to  England,  charged  with  those  letters  the  sense 
of  which  Hamlet  had  altered  to  their  own  deserved,  destruction. 

The  pirates  who  had  the  prince  in  their  power  showed  them- 
selves gentle  enemies,  and,  knowing  whom  they  had  got  prisoner, 
in  the  hope  that  the  prince  might  do  them  a  good  turn  at  court 
in  recompense  for  any  favor  they  might  show  him,  they  set 
Hamlet  on  shore  at  the  nearest  port  in  Denmark.  From  that 
place  Hamlet  wrote  to  the  king,  acquainting  him  with  the  strange 
chance  which  had  brought  him  back  to  his  own  country  and 
saying  that  on  the  next  day  he  should  present  himself  before  his 
Majesty.  When  he  got  home  a  sad  spectacle  offered  itself  the  first 
thing  to  his  eyes. 
21  [321] 


TALES    FROM 


[322 


This  was  the  funeral  of 
the  young  and  beautiful 
Ophelia,  his  once  dear  mis- 
tress. The  wits  of  this 
young  lady  had  begun  to 
turn  ever  since  her  poor 
father's  death.  That  he 
should  die  a  violent  death, 
and  by  the  hands  of  the 
prince  whom  she  loved,  so 
affected  this  tender  young 
maid  that  in  a  little  time 
she  grew  perfectly  dis- 
tracted, and  would  go  about 
giving  flowers  away  to  the 
ladies  of  the  court,  and  say- 
ing that  they  were  for  her 
fathers  burial,  singing 
songs  about  love  and  about 
death,  and  sometimes  such 
as  had  no  meaning  at  all, 
as  if  she  had  no  memory  of 
what  happened  to  her. 
There  was  a  willow  which 
grew  slanting  over  a  brook, 
and  reflected  its  leaves  on 
the  stream.  To  this  brook 
she  came  one  day  when  she 
was  unwatched,  with  gar- 
lands she  had  been  making, 
mixed  up  of  daisies  and 
nettles,  flowers  and  weeds 
together,  and  clambering 
up  to  hang  her  garland  upon . 
the  boughs  of  the  willow, 


SHAKESPEARE 

a  bough  broke  and  precipitated  this  fair  young  maid,  garland, 
and  all  that  she  had  gathered,  into  the  water,  where  her 
clothes  bore  her  up  for  a  while,  during  which  she  chanted 
scraps  of  old  tunes,  like  one  insensible  to  her  own  distress, 
or  as  if  she  were  a  creature  natural  to  that  element;  but  long 
it  was  not  before  her  garments,  heavy  with  the  wet,  pulled 
her  in  from  her  melodious  singing  to  a  muddy  and  miserable 
death.  It  was  the  funeral  of  this  fair  maid  which  her  brother 
Laertes  was  celebrating,  the  king  and  queen  and  whole  court  being 
present,  when  Hamlet  arrived.  He  knew  not  what  all  this  show 
imported,  but  stood  on  one  side,  not  inclining  to  interrupt  the 
ceremony.  He  saw  the  flowers  strewed  upon  her  grave,  as  the 
custom  was  in  maiden  burials,  which  the  queen  herself  threw  in; 
and  as  she  threw  them  she  said: 

"Sweets  to  the  sweet!  I  thought  to  have  decked  thy  bride- 
bed,  sweet  maid,  not  to  have  strewed  thy  grave.  Thou  shouldst 
have  been  my  Hamlet's  wife." 

And  he  heard  her  brother  wish  that  violets  might  spring  from 
her  grave;  and  he  saw  him  leap  into  the  grave  all  frantic  with 
grief,  and  bid  the  attendants  pile  mountains  of  earth  upon  him, 
that  he  might  be  buried  with  her.  And  Hamlet's  love  for  this 
fair  maid  came  back  to  him,  and  he  could  not  bear  that  a  brother 
should  show  so  much  transport  of  grief,  for  he  thought  that  he 
loved  Ophelia  better  than  forty  thousand  brothers.  Then  dis- 
covering himself,  he  leaped  into  the  grave  where  Laertes  was, 
all  as  frantic  or  more  frantic  than  he,  and  Laertes,  knowing  him 
to  be  Hamlet,  who  had  been  the  cause  of  his  father's  and  his  sis- 
ter's death,  grappled  him  by  the  throat  as  an  enemy,  till  the 
attendants  parted  them;  and  Hamlet,  after  the  funeral,  excused 
his  hasty  act  in  throwing  himself  into  the  grave  as  if  to  brave 
Laertes;  but  he  said  he  could  not  bear  that  any  one  should  seem 
to  outgo  him  in  grief  for  the  death  of  the  fair  Ophelia.  And  for 
the  time  these  two  noble  youths  seemed  reconciled. 

But  out  of  the  grief  and  anger  of  Laertes  for  the  death  of  his 
father  and  Ophelia  the  king,  Hamlet's  wicked  uncle,  contrived 

[323] 


TALES    FROM 

destruction  for  Hamlet.  He  set  on  Laertes,  under  cover  of  peace 
and  reconciliation,  to  challenge  Hamlet  to  a  friendly  trial  of  skill 
at  fencing,  which  Hamlet  accepting,  a  day  was  appointed  to  try 
the  match.  At  this  match  all  the  court  was  present,  and  Laertes, 
by  direction  of  the  king,  prepared  a  poisoned  weapon.  Upon 
this  match  great  wagers  were  laid  by  the  courtiers,  as  both 
Hamlet  and  Laertes  were  known  to  excel  at  this  sword  play; 
and  Hamlet,  taking  up  the  foils,  chose  one,  not  at  all  suspecting 
the  treachery  of  Laertes,  or  being  careful  to  examine  Laertes's 
weapon,  who,  instead  of  a  foil  or  blunted  sword,  which  the  laws 
of  fencing  require,  made  use  of  one  with  a  point,  and  poisoned. 
At  first  Laertes  did  but  play  with  Hamlet,  and  suffered  him  to 
gain  some  advantages,  which  the  dissembling  king  magnified  and 
extolled  beyond  measure,  drinking  to  Hamlet's  success  and  wager- 
ing rich  bets  upon  the  issue.  But  after  a  few  pauses  Laertes, 
growing  warm,  made  a  deadly  thrust  at  Hamlet  with  his  poisoned 
weapon,  and  gave  him  a  mortal  blow.  Hamlet,  incensed,  but 
not  knowing  the  whole  of  the  treachery,  in  the  scuffle  exchanged 
his  own  innocent  weapon  for  Laertes's  deadly  one,  and  with  a 
thrust  of  Laertes's  own  sword  repaid  Laertes  home,  who  was 
thus  justly  caught  in  his  own  treachery.  In  this  instant  the  queen 
shrieked  out  that  she  was  poisoned.  She  had  inadvertently 
drunk  out  of  a  bowl  which  the  king  had  prepared  for  Hamlet, 
in  case  that,  being  warm  in  fencing,  he  should  call  for  drink;  into 
this  the  treacherous  king  had  infused  a  deadly  poison,  to  make 
sure  of  Hamlet,  if  Laertes  had  failed.  He  had  forgotten  to  warn 
the  queen  of  the  bowl,  which  she  drank  of,  and  immediately 
died,  exclaiming  with  her  last  breath  that  she  was  poisoned. 
Hamlet,  suspecting  some  treachery,  ordered  the  doors  to  be  shut 
while  he  sought  it  out.  Laertes  told  him  to  seek  no  farther,  for 
he  was  the  traitor;  and  feeling  his  life  go  away  with  the  wound 
which  Hamlet  had  given  him,  he  made  confession  of  the  treachery 
he  had  used  and  how  he  had  fallen  a  victim  to  it:  and  he  told 
Hamlet  of  the  envenomed  point,  and  said  that  Hamlet  had  not 
half  an  hour  to  live,  for  no  medicine  could  cure  him;  and  begging 

[324] 


SHAKESPEARE 

forgiveness  of  Hamlet,  he  died,  with  his  last  words  accusing  the 
""king  of  being  the  contriver  of  the  mischief.  When  Hamlet  saw 
his  end  draw  near,  there  being  yet  some  venom  left  upon  the 
sword,  he  suddenly  turned  upon  his  false  uncle  and  thrust  the 
point  of  it  to  his  heart,  fulfilling  the  promise  which  he  had  made 
to  his  father's  spirit,  whose  injunction  was  now  accomplished 
and  his  foul  murder  revenged  upon  the  murderer.  Then  Hamlet, 
feeling  his  breath  fail  and  life  departing,  turned  to  his  dear 
friend  Horatio,  who  had  been  spectator  of  this  fatal  tragedy; 
and  with  his  dying  breath  requested  him  that  he  would  live  to 
tell  his  story  to  the  world  (for  Horatio  had  made  a  motion  as  if 
he  would  slay  himself  to  accompany  the  prince  in  death),  and 
Horatio  promised  that  he  would  make  a  true  report  as  one  that 
was  privy  to  all  the  circumstances.  And,  thus  satisfied,  the 
noble  heart  of  Hamlet  cracked;  and  Horatio  and  the  bystanders 
with  many  tears  commended  the  spirit  of  this  sweet  prince  to 
the  guardianship  of  angels.  For  Hamlet  was  a  loving  and  a 
gentle  prince  and  greatly  beloved  for  his  many  noble  and  prince- 
like qualities;  and  if  he  had  lived,  would  no  doubt  have  proved 
a  most  royal  and  complete  king  to  Denmark. 


TALES    FROM 


OTHELLO 


RABANTIO,  the  rich  senator  of  Venice, 
had  a  fair  daughter,  the  gentle  Des- 
demona.  She  was  sought  to  by  divers 
suitors,  both  on  account  of  her  many 
virtuous  qualities  and  for  her  rich  ex- 
pectations. But  among  the  suitors  of 
her  own  clime  and  complexion  she  saw 
none  whom  she  could  affect,  for  this 
noble  lady,  who  regarded  the  mind  more 
than  the  features  of  men,  with  a  singularity  rather  to  be  ad- 
mired than  imitated  had  chosen  for  the  object  of  her  affections 
a  Moor,  a  black,  whom  her  father  loved  and  often  invited  to 
his  house. 

Neither  is  Desdemona  to  be  altogether  condemned  for  the 
unsuitableness  of  the  person  whom  she  selected  for  her  lover. 
Bating  that  Othello  was  black,  the  noble  Moor  wanted  nothing 
which  might  recommend  him  to  the  affections  of  the  greatest 
lady.  He  was  a  soldier,  and  a  brave  one;  and  by  his  conduct  in 
bloody  wars  against  the  Turks  had  risen  to  the  rank  of  general 
in  the  Venetian  service,  and  was  esteemed  and  trusted  by  the 
state. 

He  had  been  a  traveler,  and  Desdemona  (as  is  the  manner  of 
ladies)  loved  to  hear  him  tell  the  story  of  his  adventures,  which 
he  would  run  through  from  his  earliest  recollection;  the  battles, 
sieges,  and  encounters  which  he  had  passed  through;  the  perils 
he  had  been  exposed  to  by  land  and  by  water;  his  hair-breadth 
escapes,  when  he  had  entered  a  breach  or  marched  up  to  the  mouth 
of  a  cannon;  and  how  he  had  been  taken  prisoner  by  the  insolent 
enemy,  and  sold  to  slavery;    how  he  demeaned  himself  in  that 

[326] 


w 

en 
O 

w 

o 

> 

t-1 

o 
< 
w 
a 

H 

O 

X 
w 

> 


H 

w 

r< 
f 

H 

K 
W 

CO 

g 

o 


CO 

> 

< 
w 

2 

H 

w 

CO 


SHAKESPEARE 

state,  and  how  he  escaped :  all  these  accounts,  added  to  the  narra- 
tion of  the  strange  things  he  had  seen  in  foreign  countries,  the 
vast  wilderness  and  romantic  caverns,  the  quarries,  the  rocks 
and  mountains  whose  heads  are  in  the  clouds;  of  the  savage 
nations,  the  cannibals  who  are  man-eaters,  and  a  race  of  people 
in  Africa  whose  heads  do  grow  beneath  their  shoulders.  These 
travelers'  stories  would  so  enchain  the  attention  of  Desdemona 
that  if  she  were  called  off  at  any  time  by  household  affairs  she 
would  despatch  with  all  haste  that  business,  and  return,  and  with 
a  greedy  ear  devour  Othello's  discourse.  And  once  he  took  ad- 
vantage of  a  pliant  hour  and  drew  from  her  a  prayer  that  he  would 
tell  her  the  whole  story  of  his  life  at  large,  of  which  she  had  heard 
so  much,  but  only  by  parts.  To  which  he  consented,  and  beguiled 
her  of  many  a  tear  when  he  spoke  of  some  distressful  stroke  which 
his  youth  had  suffered. 

His  story  being  done,  she  gave  him  for  his  pains  a  world  of 
sighs.  She  swore  a  pretty  oath  that  it  was  all  passing  strange, 
and  pitiful,  wondrous  pitiful.  She  wished  (she  said)  she  had  not 
heard  it,  yet  she  wished  that  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man; 
and  then  she  thanked  him,  and  told  him,  if  he  had  a  friend  who 
loved  her,  he  had  only  to  teach  him  how  to  tell  his  story  and  that 
would  woo  her.  Upon  this  hint,  delivered  not  with  more  frankness 
than  modesty,  accompanied  with  certain  bewitching  prettiness 
and  blushes,  which  Othello  could  not  but  understand,  he  spoke 
more  openly  of  his  love,  and  in  this  golden  opportunity  gained 
the  consent  of  the  generous  Lady  Desdemona  privately  to  marry 
him. 

Neither  Othello's  color  nor  his  fortune  was  such  that  it  could  be 
hoped  Brabantio  would  accept  him  for  a  son-in-law.  He  had  left 
his  daughter  free;  but  he  did  expect  that,  as  the  manner  of  noble 
Venetian  ladies  was,  she  would  choose  erelong  a  husband  of 
senatorial  rank  or  expectations;  but  in  this  he  was  deceived. 
Desdemona  loved  the  Moor,  though  he  was  black,  and  devoted 
her  heart  and  fortunes  to  his  valiant  parts  and  qualities.  So  was 
her  heart  subdued  to  an  implicit  devotion  to  the  man  she  had 

[329] 


TALES    FROM 

selected  for  a  husband  that  his  very  color,  which  to  all  but  this 
discerning  lady  would  have  proved  an  insurmountable  objection, 
was  by  her  esteemed  above  all  the  white  skins  and  clear  complex- 
ions of  the  young  Venetian  nobility,  her  suitors. 

Their  marriage,  which,  though  privately  carried,  could  not 
long  be  kept  a  secret,  came  to  the  ears  of  the  old  man,  Brabantio, 
who  appeared  in  a  solemn  council  of  the  senate  as  an  accuser  of 
the  Moor  Othello,  who  by  spells  and  witchcraft  (he  maintained) 
had  seduced  the  affections  of  the  fair  Desdemona  to  marry  him, 
without  the  consent  of  her  father,  and  against  the  obligations  of 
hospitality. 

At  this  juncture  of  time  it  happened  that  the  state  of  Venice 
had  immediate  need  of  the  services  of  Othello,  news  having 
arrived  that  the  Turks  with  mighty  preparation  had  fitted  out  a 
fleet,  which  was  bending  its  course  to  the  island  of  Cyprus,  with 
intent  to  regain  that  strong  post  from  the  Venetians,  who  then 
held  it;  in  this  emergency  the  state  turned  its  eyes  upon  Othello, 
who  alone  was  deemed  adequate  to  conduct  the  defense  of  Cyprus 
against  the  Turks.  So  that  Othello,  now  summoned  before  the 
senate,  stood  in  their  presence  at  once  as  a  candidate  for  a  great 
state  employment  and  as  a  culprit  charged  with  offenses  which 
by  the  laws  of  Venice  were  made  capital. 

The  age  and  senatorial  character  of  old  Brabantio  commanded 
a  most  patient  hearing  from  that  grave  assembly;  but  the  incensed 
father  conducted  his  accusation  with  so  much  intemperance, 
producing  likelihoods  and  allegations  for  proofs,  that,  when 
Othello  was  called  upon  for  his  defense,  he  had  only  to  relate  a 
plain  tale  of  the  course  of  his  love;  which  he  did  with  such  an 
artless  eloquence,  recounting  the  whole  story  of  his  wooing  as 
we  have  related  it  above,  and  delivered  his  speech  with  so  noble 
a  plainness  (the  evidence  of  truth)  that  the  duke,  who  sat  as 
chief  judge,  could  not  help  confessing  that  a  tale  so  told  would 
have  won  his  daughter,  too,  and  the  spells  and  conjurations  which 
Othello  had  used  in  his  courtship  plainly  appeared  to  have  been  no 
more  than  the  honest  arts  of  men  in  love,  and  the  only  witchcraft 

[33o] 


SHAKESPEARE 

which  he  had  used  the  faculty  of  telling  a  soft  tale  to  win  a  lady's 
ear. 

This  statement  of  Othello  was  confirmed  by  the  testimony  of 
the  Lady  Desdemona  herself,  who  appeared  in  court  and,  pro- 
fessing a  duty  to  her  father  for  life  and  education,  challenged 
leave  of  him  to  profess  a  yet  higher  duty  to  her  lord  and  husband, 
even  so  much  as  her  mother  had  shown  in  preferring  him  (Bra- 
bantio)  above  her  father. 

The  old  senator,  unable  to  maintain  his  plea,  called  the  Moor 
to  him  with  many  expressions  of  sorrow,  and,  as  an  act  of  neces- 
sity, bestowed  upon  him  his  daughter,  whom,  if  he  had  been  free 
to  withhold  her  (he  told  him),  he  would  with  all  his  heart  have 
kept  from  him;  adding  that  he  was  glad  at  soul  that  he  had  no 
other  child,  for  this  behavior  of  Desdemona  would  have  taught 
him  to  be  a  tyrant  and  hang  clogs  on  them  for  her  desertion. 

This  difficulty  being  got  over,  Othello,  to  whom  custom  had 
rendered  the  hardships  of  a  military  life  as  natural  as  food  and 
rest  are  to  other  men,  readily  undertook  the  management  of  the 
wars  in  Cyprus;  and  Desdemona,  preferring  the  honor  of  her  lord 
(though  with  danger)  before  the  indulgence  of  those  idle  delights 
in  which  new-married  people  usually  waste  their  time,  cheerfully 
consented  to  his  going. 

No  sooner  were  Othello  and  his  lady  landed  in  Cyprus  than  news 
arrived  that  a  desperate  tempest  had  dispersed  the  Turkish  fleet, 
and  thus  the  island  was  secure  from  any  immediate  apprehension 
of  an  attack.  But  the  war  which  Othello  was  to  suffer  was  now 
beginning;  and  the  enemies  which  malice  stirred  up  against  his 
innocent  lady  proved  in  their  nature  more  deadly  than  strangers 
or  infidels. 

Among  all  the  general's  friends  no  one  possessed  the  confidence 
of  Othello  more  entirely  than  Cassio.  Michael  Cassio  was  a  young 
soldier,  a  Florentine,  gay,  amorous,  and  of  pleasing  address, 
favorite  qualities  with  women;  he  was  handsome  and  eloquent, 
and  exactly  such  a  person  as  might  alarm  the  jealousy  of  a  man 
advanced  in  years  (as  Othello  in  some  measure  was)  who  had 

[33i] 


TALES    FROM 


married  a  young  and  beautiful  wife;  but  Othello  was  as  free  from 
jealousy  as  he  was  noble,  and  as  incapable  of  suspecting  as  of 
doing  a  base  action.  He  had  employed  this  Cassio  in  his  love 
affair  with  Desdemona,  and  Cassio  had  been  a  sort  of  go-between 
in  his  suit;  for  Othello,  fearing  that  himself  had  not  those  soft 
parts  of  conversation  which  please  ladies,  and  finding  these 
qualities  in  his  friend,  would  often  depute  Cassio  to  go  (as  he 

phrased  it)  a-courting  for 
him,  such  innocent  sim- 
plicity being  rather  an 
honor  than  a  blemish  to 
the  character  of  the 
valiant  Moor.  So  that 
no  wonder  if,  next  to 
Othello  himself  (but  at 
far  distance,  as  beseems  a 
virtuous  wife),  the  gentle 
Desdemona  loved  and 
trusted  Cassio.  Nor  had 
the  marriage  of  this 
couple  made  any  differ- 
ence in  their  behavior  to 
Michael  Cassio.  He  fre- 
quented their  house,  and  his  free  and  rattling  talk  was  no  unpleas- 
ing  variety  to  Othello,  who  was  himself  of  a  more  serious  temper; 
for  such  tempers  are  observed  often  to  delight  in  their  contraries, 
as  a  relief  from  the  oppressive  excess  of  their  own;  and  Desde- 
mona and  Cassio  would  talk  and  laugh  together,  as  in  the  days 
when  he  went  a-courting  for  his  friend. 

Othello  had  lately  promoted  Cassio  to  be  the  lieutenant,  a  place 
of  trust,  and  nearest  to  the  general's  person.  This  promotion  gave 
great  offense  to  Iago,  an  older  officer  who  thought  he  had  a  better 
claim  than  Cassio,  and  would  often  ridicule  Cassio  as  a  fellow 
fit  only  for  the  company  of  ladies  and  one  that  knew  no  more  of 
the  art  of  war  or  how  to  set  an  army  in  array  for  battle  than  a 

[332  J 


SHAKESPEARE 

girl.  Iago  hated  Cassio,  and  he  hated  Othello,  as  well  for  favoring 
Cassio  as  for  an  unjust  suspicion,  which  he  had  lightly  taken  up 
against  Othello,  that  the  Moor  was  too  fond  of  Iago's  wife  Emilia. 
From  these  imaginary  provocations  the  plotting  mind  of  Iago 
conceived  a  horrid  scheme  of  revenge,  which  should  involve 
Cassio,  the  Moor,  and  Desdemona  in  one  common  ruin. 

Iago  was  artful,  and  had  studied  human  nature  deeply,  and  he 
knew  that  of  all  the  torments  which  afflict  the  mind  of  man  (and 
far  beyond  bodily  torture)  the  pains  of  jealousy  were  the  most 
intolerable  and  had  the  sorest  sting.  If  he  could  succeed  in  making 
Othello  jealous  of  Cassio  he  thought  it  would  be  an  exquisite  plot 
of  revenge  and  might  end  in  the  death  of  Cassio  or  Othello,  or 
both;   he  cared  not. 

The  arrival  of  the  general  and  his  lady  in  Cyprus,  meeting  with 
the  news  of  the  dispersion  of  the  enemy's  fleet,  made  a  sort  of 
holiday  in  the  island.  Everybody  gave  himself  up  to  feasting 
and  making  merry.  Wine  flowed  in  abundance,  and  cups  went 
round  to  the  health  of  the  black  Othello  and  his  lady  the  fair 
Desdemona. 

Cassio  had  the  direction  of  the  guard  that  night,  with  a  charge 
from  Othello  to  keep  the  soldiers  from  excess  in  drinking,  that 
no  brawl  might  arise  to  fright  the  inhabitants  or  disgust  them  with 
the  new-landed  forces.  That  night  Iago  began  his  deep-laid 
plans  of  mischief.  Under  color  of  loyalty  and  love  to  the  general, 
he  enticed  Cassio  to  make  rather  too  free  with  the  bottle  (a  great 
fault  in  an  officer  upon  guard).  Cassio  for  a  time  resisted,  but  he 
could  not  long  hold  out  against  the  honest  freedom  which  Iago 
knew  how  to  put  on,  but  kept  swallowing  glass  after  glass  (as 
Iago  still  plied  him  with  drink  and  encouraging  songs),  and  Cas- 
sio's  tongue  ran  over  in  praise  of  the  Lady  Desdemona,  whom  he 
again  and  again  toasted,  affirming  that  she  was  a  most  exquisite 
lady.  Until  at  last  the  enemy  which  he  put  into  his  mouth  stole 
away  his  brains;  and  upon  some  provocation  given  him  by  a 
fellow  whom  Iago  had  set  on,  swords  were  drawn,  and  Montano, 
a  worthy  officer,  who  interfered  to  appease  the  dispute,  was 

I  333] 


TALES    FROM 


wounded  in  the  scuffle.  The  riot  now  began  to  be  general,  and 
Iago,  who  had  set  on  foot  the  mischief,  was  foremost  in  spreading 
the  alarm,  causing  the  castle  bell  to  be  rung  (as  if  some  dangerous 
mutiny  instead  of  a  slight  drunken  quarrel  had  arisen).  The 
alarm-bell  ringing  awakened  Othello,  who,  dressing  in  a  hurry 

and  coming  to  the  scene  of  action, 
questioned  Cassio  of  the  cause. 
Cassio  was  now  come  to  himself, 
the  effect  of  the  wine  having  a 
little  gone  off,  but  was  too  much 
ashamed  to  reply;  and  Iago,  pre- 
tending a  great  reluctance  to 
accuse  Cassio,  but,  as  it  were, 
forced  into  it  by  Othello,  who  in- 
sisted to  know  the  truth,  gave  an 
account  of  the  whole  matter  (leav- 
ing out  his  own  share  in  it,  which 
Cassio  was  too  far  gone  to  re- 
member) in  such  a  manner  as, 
while  he  seemed  to  make  Cassio's 
offense  less,  did  indeed  make  it 
appear  greater  than  it  was.  The 
result  was  that  Othello,  who  was 
a  strict  observer  of  discipline,  was 
compelled  to  take  away  Cassio's 
place  of  lieutenant  from  him. 

Thus  did  Iago's  first  artifice  suc- 
ceed completely;  he  had  now  un- 
dermined his  hated  rival  and  thrust  him  out  of  his  place;  but 
a  further  use  was  hereafter  to  be  made  of  the  adventure  of  this 
disastrous  night. 

Cassio,  whom  this  misfortune  had  entirely  sobered,  now 
lamented  to  his  seeming  friend  Iago  that  he  should  have  been  such 
a  fool  as  to  transform  himself  into  a  beast.  He  was  undone,  for 
how  could  he  ask  the  general  for  his  place  again  ?    He  would  tell 

[334] 


SHAKESPEARE 

him  he  was  a  drunkard.  He  despised  himself.  Iago,  affecting 
to  make  light  of  it,  said  that  he,  or  any  man  living,  might  be  drunk 
upon  occasion;  it  remained  now  to  make  the  best  of  a  bad  bar- 
gain. The  general's  wife  was  now  the  general,  and  could  do  any- 
thing with  Othello;  that  he  were  best  to  apply  to  the  Lady  Des- 
demona  to  mediate  for  him  with  her  lord;  that  she  was  of  a  frank, 
obliging  disposition  and  would  readily  undertake  a  good  office  of 
this  sort  and  set  Cassio  right  again  in  the  general's  favor;  and 
then  this  crack  in  their  love  would  be  made  stronger  than  ever. 
A  good  advice  of  Iago,  if  it  had  not  been  given  for  wicked  pur- 
poses, which  will  after  appear. 

Cassio  did  as  Iago  advised  him,  and  made  application  to  the 
Lady  Desdemona,  who  was  easy  to  be  won  over  in  any  honest 
suit;  and  she  promised  Cassio  that  she  should  be  his  solicitor  with 
her  lord,  and  rather  die  than  give  up  his  cause.  This  she  imme- 
diately set  about  in  so  earnest  and  pretty  a  manner  that  Othello, 
who  was  mortally  offended  with  Cassio,  could  not  put  her  off. 
When  he  pleaded  delay,  and  that  it  was  too  soon  to  pardon  such 
an  offender,  she  would  not  be  beat  back,  but  insisted  that  it 
should  be  the  next  night,  or  the  morning  after,  or  the  next  morn- 
ing to  that  at  farthest.  Then  she  showed  how  penitent  and 
humbled  poor  Cassio  was,  and  that  his  offense  did  not  deserve  so 
sharp  a  check.    And  when  Othello  still  hung  back: 

"What!  my  lord,"  said  she,  "that  I  should  have  so  much  to 
do  to  plead  for  Cassio,  Michael  Cassio,  that  came  a-courting  for 
you,  and  oftentimes,  when  I  have  spoken  in  dispraise  of  you  has 
taken  your  part!  I  count  this  but  a  little  thing  to  ask  of  you. 
When  I  mean  to  try  your  love  indeed  I  shall  ask  a  weighty 
matter.'* 

Othello  could  deny  nothing  to  such  a  pleader,  and  only  request- 
ing that  Desdemona  would  leave  the  time  to  him,  promised  to 
receive  Michael  Cassio  again  in  favor. 

It  happened  that  Othello  and  Iago  had  entered  into  the  room 
where  Desdemona  was,  just  as  Cassio,  who  had  been  imploring 
her  intercession,  was  departing  at  the  opposite  door;    and  Iago, 

[3351 


TA  LES    FROM 

who  was  full  of  art,  said  in  a  low  voice,  as  if  to  himself,  "I  like 
not  that."  Othello  took  no  great  notice  of  what  he  said;  indeed, 
the  conference  which  immediately  took  place  with  his  lady  put 
it  out  of  his  head;  but  he  remembered  it  afterward.  For  when 
Desdemona  was  gone,  Iago,  as  if  for  mere  satisfaction  of  his 
thought,  questioned  Othello  whether  Michael  Cassio,  when 
Othello  was  courting  his  lady,  knew  of  his  love.  To  this  the  gen- 
eral answering  in  the  affirmative,  and  adding,  that  he  had  gone 
between  them  very  often  during  the  courtship,  Iago  knitted  his 
brow,  as  if  he  had  got  fresh  light  on  some  terrible  matter,  and 
cried,  "Indeed!"  This  brought  into  Othello's  mind  the  words 
which  Iago  had  let  fall  upon  entering  the  room  and  seeing  Cassio 
with  Desdemona;  and  he  began  to  think  there  was  some  meaning 
in  all  this,  for  he  deemed  Iago  to  be  a  just  man,  and  full  of  love 
and  honesty,  and  what  in  a  false  knave  would  be  tricks  in  him 
seemed  to  be  the  natural  workings  of  an  honest  mind,  big  with 
something  too  great  for  utterance.  And  Othello  prayed  Iago  to 
speak  what  he  knew  and  to  give  his  worst  thoughts  words. 

"And  what,"  said  Iago,  "if  some  thoughts  very  vile  should 
have  intruded  into  my  breast,  as  where  is  the  palace  into  which 
foul  things  do  not  enter?"  Then  Iago  went  on  to  say,  what  a 
pity  it  were  if  any  trouble  should  arise  to  Othello  out  of  his  im- 
perfect observations;  that  it  would  not  be  for  Othello's  peace 
to  know  his  thoughts;  that  people's  good  names  were  not  to  be 
taken  away  for  slight  suspicions;  and  when  Othello's  curiosity 
was  raised  almost  to  distraction  with  these  hints  and  scattered 
words,  Iago,  as  if  in  earnest  care  for  Othello's  peace  of  mind,  be- 
sought him  to  beware  of  jealousy.  With  such  art  did  this  villain 
raise  suspicions  in  the  unguarded  Othello,  by  the  very  caution 
which  he  pretended  to  give  him  against  suspicion. 

"I  know,"  said  Othello,  "that  my  wife  is  fair,  loves  company 
and  feasting,  is  free  of  speech,  sings,  plays,  and  dances  well;  but 
where  virtue  is,  these  qualities  are  virtuous.  I  must  have  proof 
before  I  think  her  dishonest." 

Then  Iago,  as  if  glad  that  Othello  was  slow  to  believe  ill  of  his 

[336] 


SHAKESPEARE 

lady,  frankly  declared  that  he  had  no  proof,  but  begged  Othello 
to^observe  her  behavior  well,  when  Cassio  was  by;  not  to  be  jeal- 
ous nor  too  secure  neither,  for  that  he  (Iago)  knew  the  dispositions 
of  the  Italian  ladies,  his  countrywomen,  better  than  Othello  could 
do;  and  that  in  Venice  the  wives  let  Heaven  see  many  pranks 
they  dared  not  show  their  husbands.  Then  he  artfully  insinuated 
that  Desdemona  deceived  her  father  in  marrying  with  Othello, 
and  carried  it  so  closely  that  the  poor  old  man  thought  that  witch- 
craft had  been  used.  Othello  was  much  moved  with  this  argu- 
ment, which  brought  the  matter  home  to  him,  for  if  she  had 
deceived  her  father  why  might  she  not  deceive  her  husband? 

Iago  begged  pardon  for  having  moved  him;  but  Othello, 
assuming  an  indifference,  while  he  was  really  shaken  with  inward 
grief  at  Iago's  words,  begged  him  to  go  on,  which  Iago  did  with 
many  apologies,  as  if  unwilling  to  produce  anything  against 
Cassio,  whom  he  called  his  friend.  He  then  came  strongly  to 
the*  'point  and  reminded  Othello  how  Desdemona  had  refused 
many  suitable  matches  of  her  own  clime  and  complexion,  and  had 
married  him,  a  Moor,  which  showed  unnatural  in  her  and  proved 
her  to  have  a  headstrong  will;  and  when  her  better  judgment 
returned,  how  probable  it  was  she  should  fall  upon  comparing 
Othello  with  the  fine  forms  and  clear  white  complexions  of  the 
young  Italians  her  countrymen.  He  concluded  with  advising 
Othello  to  put  off  his  reconcilement  with  Cassio  a  little  longer, 
and  in  the  mean  while  to  note  with  what  earnestness  Desdemona 
should  intercede  in  his  behalf;  for  that  much  would  be  seen  in 
that.  So  mischievously  did  this  artful  villain  lay  his  plots  to  turn 
the  gentle  qualities  of  this  innocent  lady  into  her  destruction,  and 
make  a  net  for  her  out  of  her  own  goodness  to  entrap  her,  first 
setting  Cassio  on  to  entreat  her  mediation,  and  then  out  of  that 
very  mediation  contriving  stratagems  for  her  ruin. 

The  conference  ended  with  Iago's  begging  Othello  to  account 

his  wife  innocent  until  he  had  more  decisive  proof;   and  Othello 

promised  to  be  patient;    but  from  that  moment  the  deceived 

Othello  never  tasted  content  of  mind.     Poppy,  nor  the  juice  of 

22  [337] 


TALES    FROM 


mandragora,  nor  all  the  sleeping  potions  in  the  world,  could  ever 
again  restore  to  him  that  sweet  rest  which  he  had  enjoyed  but 
yesterday.  His  occupation  sickened  upon  him.  He  no  longer 
.took  delight  in  arms.    His  heart,  that  used  to  be  roused  at  the 

sight  of  troops  and  ban- 
ners and  battle  array,  and 
would  stir  and  leap  at  the 
sound  of  a  drum  or  a 
trumpet  or  a  neighing 
war  -  horse,  seemed  to 
have  lost  all  that  pride 
and  ambition  which  are 
a  soldier's  virtue;  and  his 
military  ardor  and  all  his 
old  joys  forsook  him. 
Sometimes  he  thought 
his  wife  honest,  and  at 
times  he  thought  her  not 
so;  sometimes  he  thought 
I  ago  just,  and  at  times  he 
thought  him  not  so;  then 
he  would  wish  that  he  had 
never  known  of  it;  he  was 
not  the  worse  for  her  lov- 
ing Cassio,  so  long  as  he 
knew  it  not.  Torn  to 
pieces  with  these  distract- 
ing thoughts,  he  once  laid 
hold  on  Iago's  throat  and  demanded  proof  of  Desdemona's 
guilt,  or  threatened  instant  death  for  his  having  belied  her. 
Iago,  feigning  indignation  that  his  honesty  should  be  taken  for 
a  vice,  asked  Othello  if  he  had  not  sometimes  seen  a  handker- 
chief spotted  with  strawberries  in  his  wife's  hand.  Othello  an- 
swered that  he  had  given  her  such  a  one,  and  that  it  was  his 
first  gift. 

[338] 


SHAKESPEARE 

"That  same  handkerchief,"  said  Iago,  "did  I  see  Michael 
Cassio  this  day  wipe  his  face  with." 

"If  it  be  as  you  say,"  said  Othello,  "I  will  not  rest  till  a  wide 
revenge  swallow  them  up;  and  first,  for  a  token  of  your  fidelity, 
I  expect  that  Cassio  shall  be  put  to  death  within  three  days;  and 
for  that  fair  devil  [meaning  his  lady]  I  will  withdraw  and  devise 
some  swift  means  of  death  for  her." 

Trifles  light  as  air  are  to  the  jealous  proofs  as  strong  as  holy 
writ.  A  handkerchief  of  his  wife's  seen  in  Cassio's  hand  was 
motive  enough  to  the  deluded  Othello  to  pass  sentence  of  death 
upon  them  both,  without  once  inquiring  how  Cassio  came  by  it. 
Desdemona  had  never  given  such  a  present  to  Cassio,  nor  would 
this  constant  lady  have  wronged  her  lord  with  doing  so  naughty 
a  thing  as  giving  his  presents  to  another  man;  both  Cassio  and 
Desdemona  were  innocent  of  any  offense  against  Othello;  but 
the  wicked  Iago,  whose  spirits  never  slept  in  contrivance  of  vil- 
lainy, had  made  his  wife  (a  good,  but  a  weak  woman)  steal  this 
handkerchief  from  Desdemona,  under  pretense  of  getting  the 
work  copied,  but  in  reality  to  drop  it  in  Cassio's  way,  where  he 
might  find  it,  and  give  a  handle  to  Iago's  suggestion  that  it  was 
Desdemona's  present. 

Othello,  soon  after  meeting  his  wife,  pretended  that  he  had  a 
headache  (as  he  might  indeed  with  truth),  and  desired  her  to  lend 
him  her  handkerchief  to  hold  to  his  temples.     She  did  so. 

"Not  this,"  said  Othello,  "but  that  handkerchief  I  gave 
you. 

Desdemona  had  it  not  about  her  (for  indeed  it  was  stolen,  as  we 
have  related). 

"How?"  said  Othello,  "this  is  a  fault  indeed.  That  handker- 
chief an  Egyptian  woman  gave  to  my  mother;  the  woman  was 
a  witch  and  could  read  people's  thoughts.  She  told  my  mother 
while  she  kept  it  it  would  make  her  amiable  and  my  father  would 
love  her;  but  if  she  lost  it  or  gave  it  away,  my  father's  fancy 
would  turn  and  he  would  loathe  her  as  much  as  he  had  loved 
her.    She,  dying,  gave  it  to  me,  and  bade  me,  if  I  ever  married, 

[  339] 


TALES    FROM 

to  give  it  to  my  wife.     I  did  so.    Take  heed  of  it.    Make  it  a 

darling  as  precious  as  your  eye." 

"Is  it  possible?"  said  the  frighted  lady. 

"'Tis  true,"  continued  Othello;  "it  is  a  magical  handkerchief; 
a  sibyl  that  had  lived  in  the  world  two  hundred  years,  in  a  fit  of 
prophetic  fury  worked  it;  the  silkworms  that  furnished  the  silk 
were  hallowed,  and  it  was  dyed  in  a  mummy  of  maidens'  hearts 
conserved." 

Desdemona,  hearing  the  wondrous  virtues  of  the  handkerchief, 
was  ready  to  die  with  fear,  for  she  plainly  perceived  she  had  lost 
it,  and  with  it,  she  feared,  the  affections  of  her  husband.  Then 
Othello  started  and  looked  as  if  he  were  going  to  do  some  rash 
thing,  and  still  he  demanded  the  handkerchief,  which  when  she 
could  not  produce,  she  tried  to  divert  her  husband  from  too 
serious  thoughts,  and  cheerfully  told  him  she  saw  all  his  talk 
about  the  handkerchief  was  only  to  put  her  off  from  her  suit 
about  Michael  Cassio,  whom  she  went  on  to  praise  (as  Iago  had 
foretold),  till  Othello  in  perfect  distraction  burst  out  of  the  room, 
and  then  Desdemona,  though  unwillingly,  began  to  suspect  that 
her  lord  was  jealous. 

What  cause  she  could  have  ministered  to  him  she  knew  not, 
and  then  she  accused  herself  for  accusing  the  noble  Othello,  and 
thought,  to  be  sure,  that  some  untoward  news  from  Venice  or 
some  state  troubles  had  puddled  his  spirits  and  made  his  temper 
not  so  sweet  as  formerly.  And  she  said,  "Men  are  not  gods,  and 
we  must  not  look  for  that  observance  from  them  when  they  are 
married  which  they  show  us  on  the  bridal  day."  And  she  be- 
shrewed  herself  for  so  unkindly  judging  of  his  unkindness. 

Again  Othello  and  Desdemona  met,  and  he  accused  her  more 
plainly  of  being  unfaithful  and  of  loving  another  man,  but  he  did 
not  name  whom.  And  Othello  wept,  and  Desdemona  said, 
"Alas!  the  heavy  day!  why  do  you  weep?"  And  Othello  told 
her  he  could  have  borne  all  sorts  of  evils  with  fortitude — poverty, 
and  disease,  and  disgrace — but  her  infidelity  had  broken  his  heart. 
And  he  called  her  a  weed  that  looked  so  fair  and  smelled  so  sweet 

[34o] 


"SHE   LOVED  THEE,   CRUEL   MOOR" 


SHAKESPEARE 

that  the  sense  ached  at  it;  and  wished  she  had  never  been  born. 
And  when  he  had  left  her  this  innocent  lady  was  so  stupefied 
with  wonder  at  her  lord's  untrue  suspicion  of  her  that  a  weight- 
like sleep  came  over  her,  and  she  only  desired  her  attendant  to 
make  her  bed  and  to  lay  her  wedding-sheets  upon  it,  saying  that 
when  people  teach  their  babes  they  do  it  by  gentle  means  and  easy 
tasks,  and  Othello  might  have  chid  her  so;  for  in  good  faith  she 
was  but  a  child  when  she  was  chidden.  And  this  was  all  the  com- 
plaint which  this  gentle  lady  made. 

Desdemona  being  retired  to  bed,  expecting  her  lord  would  fol- 
low her,  soon  fell  into  a  slumber,  the  effect  of  her  troubled  spirits, 
when  Othello  entered  the  chamber,  full  of  the  black  purpose  which 
he  had  meditated,  of  putting  his  lady  to  death.  But  when  he 
saw  her  asleep  he  thought  he  would  not  shed  her  blood,  nor  scar 
that  white  skin  of  hers,  more  white  than  alabaster.  But  he  was 
resolved  she  should  die,  else  (as  he  said)  she  would  live  to  betray 
more  men  as  she  had  done  him.  Then  he  kissed  her  for  the  last 
time  (as  he  said),  and  that  kiss  was  so  sweet  that  he  must  needs 
kiss  her  again;   and  he  wept,  but  he  said  they  were  cruel  tears. 

Desdemona  was  awakened  with  his  kisses,  and  she  looked  upon 
Othello,  and  she  saw  him  gnaw  his  under  lip  and  roll  his  eyes,  and 
she  knew  he  was  always  fatal  when  he  looked  so;  and  he  bade 
her  prepare  for  death  and  to  say  her  prayers,  for  he  would  not 
kill  her  soul.  And  this  innocent  wife,  as  she  lay  at  his  mercy, 
begged  for  compassion  and  to  know  her  fault,  and  then  he  named 
Cassio,  and  the  handkerchief  which  (he  said)  she  had  given  him; 
and  as  the  guiltless  lady  was  proceeding  to  clear  herself  he  sud- 
denly would  hear  no  more,  but,  covering  her  up  in  the  bedclothes, 
stifled  her  till  she  died. 

In  this  instant  of  time  was  brought  into  the  house  Cassio, 
wounded  and  bleeding,  whom  Iago  had  set  one  of  his  creatures  on 
to  assassinate;  but  the  fellow  not  succeeding  in  his  attempt  to 
kill  Cassio  (whom  he  wounded,  but  not  mortally),  and  being  him- 
self killed  by  Iago  to  prevent  discovery,  in  his  pockets  were  found 
certain  letters,  which  made  the  guilt  of  Iago,  and  the  innocence 

[343] 


TALE  S    FRO  M 

of  Cassio,  clear  beyond  all  doubt;  and  Cassio  now  came  to  beg 
pardon  of  Othello,  and  to  ask  wherein  he  had  offended  him,  that 
he  had  employed  Iago  to  murder  him. 

This  discovery  was  as  a  thunderstroke  to  Othello,  who  now 
plainly  saw  that  he  was  no  better  than  a  murderer,  and  that  his 
wife  (poor  innocent  lady)  had  been  ever  faithful  to  him;  the 
extreme  anguish  of  which  discovery  making  life  insupportable, 
he  fell  upon  his  sword,  and  throwing  himself  upon  the  body  of  his 
dear  injured  lady,  expired. 

These  rash  acts  raised  much  passion  of  horror  and  amazement 
in  the  bystanders,  for  Othello  had  borne  a  fair  reputation,  and 
till  he  was  wrought  upon  by  the  arts  of  a  villain,  which  his  own 
noble  nature  never  gave  him  leave  to  suspect,  he  was  a  loving  and 
a  doting  husband.  He  had  loved  not  wisely,  but  too  well;  and 
his  manly  eyes  (when  he  learned  his  mistake),  though  not  used 
to  weep  on  every  small  occasion,  dropped  tears  as  fast  as  the 
Arabian  trees  their  gum.  And  when  he  was  dead  all  his  former 
merits  and  his  valiant  acts  were  remembered.  Nothing  now 
remained  for  his  successor  but  to  put  the  utmost  censure  of  the 
law  in  force  against  Iago,  who  was  executed  with  strict  tortures; 
and  to  send  word  to  the  state  of  Venice  of  the  lamentable  death 
of  their  renowned  general. 


SHAKESPEARE 


PERICLES,   PRINCE  OF  TYRE 

ERICLES,  Prince  of  Tyre,  became  a 
voluntary  exile  from  his  dominions,  to 
avert  the  dreadful  calamities  which 
Antiochus,  the  wicked  emperor  of  Greece, 
threatened  to  bring  upon  his  subjects 
and  city  of  Tyre,  in  revenge  for  a  dis- 
covery which  the  prince  had  made  of  a 
shocking  deed  which  the  emperor  had 
done  in  secret;  as  commonly  it  proves 
dangerous  to  pry  into  the  hidden  crimes  of  great  ones.  Leaving 
the  government  of  his  people  in  the  hands  of  his  able  and 
honest  minister,  Helicanus,  Pericles  set  sail  from  Tyre,  thinking 
to  absent  himself  till  the  wrath  of  Antiochus,  who  was  mighty, 
should  be  appeased. 

The  first  place  which  the  prince  directed  his  course  to  was 
Tarsus,  and  hearing  that  the  city  of  Tarsus  was  at  that  time 
suffering  under  a  severe  famine,  he  took  with  him  store  of  pro- 
visions for  its  relief.  On  his  arrival  he  found  the  city  reduced  to 
the  utmost  distress;  and,  he  coming  like  a  messenger  from 
heaven  with  his  unhoped-for  succor,  Cleon,  the  governor  of  Tarsus, 
welcomed  him  with  boundless  thanks.  Pericles  had  not  been 
here  many  days  before  letters  came  from  his  faithful  minister, 
warning  him  that  it  was  not  safe  for  him  to  stay  at  Tarsus,  for 
Antiochus  knew  of  his  abode,  and  by  secret  emissaries  despatched 
for  that  purpose  sought  his  life.  Upon  receipt  of  these  letters 
Pericles  put  out  to  sea  again,  amid  the  blessings  and  prayers  of 
a  whole  people  who  had  been  fed  by  his  bounty. 

He  had  not  sailed  far  when  his  ship  was  overtaken  by  a  dreadful 
storm,  and  every  man  on  board  perished  except  Pericles,  who  was 

[345] 


TALES    FROM 

cast  by  the  sea  waves  naked  on  an  unknown  shore,  where  he  had 
not  wandered  long  before  he  met  with  some  poor  fishermen,  who 
invited  him  to  their  homes,  giving  him  clothes  and  provisions. 
The  fishermen  told  Pericles  the  name  of  their  country  was  Pen- 
tapolis,  and  that  their  king  was  Simonides,  commonly  called  the 
good  Simonides,  because  of  his  peaceable  reign  and  good  govern- 
ment. From  them  he  also  learned  that  King  Simonides  had  a 
fair  young  daughter,  and  that  the  following  day  was  her  birthday, 
when  a  grand  tournament  was  to  be  held  at  court,  many  princes 
and  knights  being  come  from  all  parts  to  try  their  skill  in  arms 
for  the  love  of  Thaisa,  this  fair  princess.  While  the  prince  was 
listening  to  this  account,  and  secretly  lamenting  the  loss  of  his 
good  armor,  which  disabled  him  from  making  one  among  these 
valiant  knights,  another  fisherman  brought  in  a  complete  suit  of 
armor  that  he  had  taken  out  of  the  sea  with  his  fishing-net,  which 
proved  to  be  the  very  armor  he  had  lost.  When  Pericles  beheld 
his  own  armor  he  said:  "Thanks,  Fortune;  after  all  my  crosses 
you  give  me  somewhat  to  repair  myself.  This  armor  was  be- 
queathed to  me  by  my  dead  father,  for  whose  dear  sake  I  have 
so  loved  it  that  whithersoever  I  went  I  still  have  kept  it  by  me, 
and  the  rough  sea  that  parted  it  from  me,  having  now  be- 
come calm,  hath  given  it  back  again,  for  which  I  thank  it,  for, 
since  I  have  my  father's  gift  again,  I  think  my  shipwreck  no 
misfortune." 

The  next  day  Pericles,  clad  in  his  brave  father's  armor,  repaired 
to  the  royal  court  of  Simonides,  where  he  performed  wonders  at 
the  tournament,  vanquishing  with  ease  all  the  brave  knights  and 
valiant  princes  who  contended  with  him  in  arms  for  the  honor 
of  Thaisa's  love.  When  brave  warriors  contended  at  court  tourna- 
ments for  the  love  of  kings'  daughters,  if  one  proved  sole  victor 
over  all  the  rest,  it  was  usual  for  the  great  lady  for  whose  sake 
these  deeds  of  valor  were  undertaken  to  bestow  all  her  respect 
upon  the  conqueror,  and  Thaisa  did  not  depart  from  this  custom, 
for  she  presently  dismissed  all  the  princes  and  knights  whom  Peri- 
cles had  vanquished,  and  distinguished  him  by  her  especial  favor 

[346  J 


SHAKESPEARE 

and  regard,  crowning  him  with  the  wreath  of  victory,  as  king  of 
that  day's  happiness;  and  Pericles  became  a  most  passionate 
lover  of  this  beauteous  princess  from  the  first  moment  he  beheld 
her. 

The  good  Simonides  so  well  approved  of  the  valor  and  noble 
qualities  of  Pericles,  who  was  indeed  a  most  accomplished  gentle- 
man and  well  learned  in  all  excellent  arts,  that  though  he  knew 
not  the  rank  of  this  royal  stranger  (for  Pericles  for  fear  of  Anti- 
ochus  gave  out  that  he  was  a  private  gentleman  of  Tyre),  yet  did 
not  Simonides  disdain  to  accept  of  the  valiant  unknown  for  a 
son-in-law,  when  he  perceived  his  daughter's  affections  were 
firmly  fixed  upon  him. 

Pericles  had  not  been  many  months  married  to  Thaisa  before 
he  received  intelligence  that  his  enemy  Antiochus  was  dead,  and 
that  his  subjects  of  Tyre,  impatient  of  his  long  absence,  threatened 
to  revolt  and  talked  of  placing  Helicanus  upon  his  vacant  throne. 
This  news  came  from  Helicanus  himself,  who,  being  a  loyal  sub- 
ject to  his  royal  master,  would  not  accept  of  the  high  dignity 
offered  him,  but  sent  to  let  Pericles  know  their  intentions,  that 
he  might  return  home  and  resume  his  lawful  right.  It  was  matter 
of  great  surprise  and  joy  to  Simonides  to  find  that  his  son-in-law 
(the  obscure  knight)  was  the  renowned  Prince  of  Tyre;  yet  again 
he  regretted  that  he  was  not  the  private  gentleman  he  supposed 
him  to  be,  seeing  that  he  must  now  part  both  with  his  admired 
son-in-law  and  his  beloved  daughter,  whom  he  feared  to  trust  to 
the  perils  of  the  sea,  because  Thaisa  was  with  child;  and  Pericles 
himself  wished  her  to  remain  with  her  father  till  after  her  confine- 
ment; but  the  poor  lady  so  earnestly  desired  to  go  with  her  hus- 
band that  at  last  they  consented,  hoping  she  would  reach  Tyre 
before  she  was  brought  to  bed. 

The  sea  was  no  friendly  element  to  unhappy  Pericles,  for  long 
before  they  reached  Tyre  another  dreadful  tempest  arose,  which 
so  terrified  Thaisa  that  she  was  taken  ill,  and  in  a  short  space  of 
time  her  nurse,  Lychorida,  came  to  Pericles  with  a  little  child  in 
her  arms,  to  tell  the  prince  the  sad  tidings  that  his  wife  died  the 

[347] 


TALES    FROM 

moment  her  little  babe  was  born.    She  held  the  babe  toward  its 
father,  saying: 

"Here  is  a  thing  too  young  for  such  a  place.    This  is  the  child 
of  your  dead  queen.'* 

No  tongue  can  tell  the  dreadful  sufferings  of  Pericles  when  he 
heard  his  wife  was  dead.    As  soon  as  he  could  speak  he  said : 

"O  you  gods,  why  do 
you  make  us  love  your 
goodly  gifts  and  then 
snatch    those     gifts 


away 


"Patience,  good  sir," 
said  Lychorida,  "here  is 
all  that  is  left  alive  of 
our  dead  queen,  a  little 
daughter,  and  for  your 
child's  sake  be  more 
manly.  Patience,  good 
sir,  even  for  the  sake  of 
this  precious  charge." 

Pericles  took  the  new- 
born infant  in  his  arms, 
and  he  said  to  the  little 
babe:  "Now  may  your 
life  be  mild,  for  a  more 
blusterous  birth  had 
never  babe!  May  your 
condition  be  mild  and 
gentle,  for  you  have  had 
the  rudest  welcome  that 
ever  prince's  child  did  meet  with!  May  that  which  follows 
be  happy,  for  you  have  had  as  chiding  a  nativity  as  fire,  air, 
water,  earth,  and  heaven  could  make  to  herald  you  from  the 
womb!  Even  at  the  first,  your  loss,"  meaning  in  the  death  of 
her  mother,  "is  more  than  all  the  joys,  which  you  shall  find 

[348] 


SHAKESPEARE 

upon  this  earth  to  which  you  are  come  a  new  visitor,  shall  be 
able  to  recompense." 

The  storm  still  continuing  to  rage  furiously,  and  the  sailors 
having  a  superstition  that  while  a  dead  body  remained  in  the  ship 
the  storm  would  never  cease,  they  came  to  Pericles  to  demand 
that  his  queen  should  be  thrown  overboard;   and  they  said: 

"What  courage,  sir?    God  save  you!" 

"Courage  enough,"  said  the  sorrowing  prince.  "I  do  not  fear 
the  storm;  it  has  done  to  me  its  worst;  yet  for  the  love  of  this 
poor  infant,  this  fresh  new  seafarer,  I  wish  the  storm  was  over." 

"Sir,"  said  the  sailors,  "your  queen  must  overboard.  The  sea 
works  high,  the  wind  is  loud,  and  the  storm  will  not  abate  till 
the  ship  be  cleared  of  the  dead." 

Though  Pericles  knew  how  weak  and  unfounded  this  super- 
stition was,  yet  he  patiently  submitted,  saying:  "As  you  think 
meet.    Then  she  must  overboard,  most  wretched  queen!" 

And  now  this  unhappy  prince  went  to  take  a  last  view  of  his 
dear  wife,  and  as  he  looked  on  his  Thaisa  he  said:  "A  terrible 
childbed  hast  thou  had,  my  dear;  no  light,  no  fire;  the  unfriendly 
elements  forget  thee  utterly,  nor  have  I  time  to  bring  thee  hal- 
lowed to  thy  grave,  but  must  cast  thee  scarcely  coffined  into  the 
sea,  where  for  a  monument  upon  thy  bones  the  humming  waters 
must  overwhelm  thy  corpse,  lying  with  simple  shells.  0  Ly- 
chorida,  bid  Nestor  bring  me  spices,  ink,  and  paper,  my  casket 
and  my  jewels,  and  bid  Nicandor  bring  me  the  satin  coffin.  Lay 
the  babe  upon  the  pillow,  and  go  about  this  suddenly,  Lychorida, 
while  I  say  a  priestly  farewell  to  my  Thaisa." 

They  brought  Pericles  a  large  chest,  in  which  (wrapped  in  a 
satin  shroud)  he  placed  his  queen,  and  sweet-smelling  spices  he 
strewed  over  her,  and  beside  her  he  placed  rich  jewels,  and  a 
written  paper  telling  who  she  was  and  praying  if  haply  any  one 
should  find  the  chest  which  contained  the  body  of  his  wife  they 
Would  give  her  burial;  and  then  with  his  own  hands  he  cast  the 
chest  into  the  sea.  When  the  storm  was  over,  Pericles  ordered 
the  sailors  to  make  for  Tarsus.     "For  "  said  Pericles,  "the  babe 

f  3491 


TALES    FROM 

cannot  hold  out  till  we  come  to  Tyre.    At  Tarsus  I  will  leave  it 
at  careful  nursing." 

After  that  tempestuous  night  when  Thaisa  was  thrown  into  the 
sea,  and  while  it  was  yet  early  morning,  as  Cerimon,  a  worthy 
gentleman  of  Ephesus  and  a  most  skilful  physician,  was  standing 
by  the  seaside,  his  servants  brought  to  him  a  chest,  which  they 
said  the  sea  waves  had  thrown  on  the  land. 

"I  never  saw,"  said  one  of  them,  "so  huge  a  billow  as  cast  it 
on  our  shore." 

Cerimon  ordered  the  chest  to  be  conveyed  to  his  own  house,  and 
when  it  was  opened  he  beheld  with  wonder  the  body  of  a  young 
and  lovely  lady;  and  the  sweet-smelling  spices  and  rich  casket  of 
jewels  made  him  conclude  it  was  some  great  person  who  was  thus 
strangely  entombed.  Searching  farther,  he  discovered  a  paper, 
from  which  he  learned  that  the  corpse  which  lay  as  dead  before 
him  had  been  a  queen,  and  wife  to  Pericles,  Prince  of  Tyre;  and 
much  admiring  at  the  strangeness  of  that  accident,  and  more 
pitying  the  husband  who  had  lost  this  sweet  lady,  he  said: 

"If  you  are  living,  Pericles,  you  have  a  heart  that  even  cracks 
with  woe."  Then,  observing  attentively  Thaisa's  face,  he  saw 
how  fresh  and  unlike  death  her  looks  were,  and  he  said,  "They 
were  too  hasty  that  threw  you  into  the  sea";  for  he  did  not  be- 
lieve her  to  be  dead.  He  ordered  a  fire  to  be  made,  and  proper 
cordials  to  be  brought,  and  soft  music  to  be  played,  which  might 
help  to  calm  her  amazed  spirits  if  she  should  revive;  and  he  said 
to  those  who  crowded  round  her,  wondering  at  what  they  saw, 
"I  pray  you,  gentlemen,  give  her  air;  this  queen  will  live;  she 
has  not  been  entranced  above  five  hours;  [and  see,  she  begins  to 
blow  into  life  again;  she  is  alive;  behold,  her  eyelids  move;  this 
fair  creature  will  live  to  make  us  weep  to  hear  her  fate." 

Thaisa  had  never  died,  but  after  the  birth  of  her  little  baby 
had  fallen  into  a  deep  swoon  which  made  all  that  saw  her  con- 
clude her  to  be  dead;  and  now  by  the  care  of  this  kind  gentleman 
she  once  more  revived  to  light  and  life;  and,  opening  her  eyes, 
she  said: 

[350] 


SO  THEY   CAST  THE  QUEEN   OVERBOARD 


SHAKESPEARE 

"Where  am  I?    Where  is  my  lord?    What  world  is  this?" 
By  gentle  degrees  Cerimon  let  her  understand  what  had  be- 
fallen her;  and  when  he  thought  she  was  enough  recovered  to  bear 
the  sight  he  showed  her  the  paper  written  by  her  husband,  and 
the  jewels;   and  she  looked  on  the  paper  and  said: 

"It  is  my  lord's  writing.  That  I  was  shipped  at  sea  I  well 
remember,  but  whether  there  delivered  of  my  babe,  by  the  holy 
gods  I  cannot  rightly  say;  but  since  my  wedded  lord  I  never 
shall  see  again,  I  will  put  on  a  vestal  livery  and  never  more  have 

joy." 

"Madam,"  said  Cerimon,  "if  you  purpose  as  you  speak,  the 
temple  of  Diana  is  not  far  distant  from  hence;  there  you  may 
abide  as  a  vestal.  Moreover,  if  you  please,  a  niece  of  mine  shall 
there  attend  you."  This  proposal  was  accepted  with  thanks 
by  Thaisa;  and  when  she  was  perfectly  recovered,  Cerimon 
placed  her  in  the  temple  of  Diana,  where  she  became  a  vestal  or 
priestess  of  that  goddess,  and  passed  her  days  in  sorrowing  for 
her  husband's  supposed  loss,  and  in  the  most  devout  exercises  of 
those  times. 

Pericles  carried  his  young  daughter  (whom  he  named  Marina, 
because  she  was  born  at  sea)  to  Tarsus,  intending  to  leave  her 
with  Cleon,  the  governor  of  that  city,  and  his  wife  Dionysia, 
thinking,  for  the  good  he  had  done  to  them  at  the  time  of  their 
famine,  they  would  be  kind  to  his  little  motherless  daughter. 
When  Cleon  saw  Prince  Pericles  and  heard  of  the  great  loss  which 
had  befallen  him  he  said,  "Oh,  your  sweet  queen,  that  it  had 
pleased  Heaven  you  could  have  brought  her  hither  to  have  blessed 
my  eyes  with  the  sight  of  her!" 

Pericles  replied:  "We  must  obey  the  powers  above  us.  Should 
I  rage  and  roar  as  the  sea  does  in  which  my  Thaisa  lies,  yet  the 
end  must  be  as  it  is.  My  gentle  babe,  Marina  here,  I  must  charge 
your  charity  with  her.  I  leave  her  the  infant  of  your  care,  beseech- 
ing you  to  give  her  princely  training."  And  then  turning  to  Cleon's 
wife,  Dionysia,  he  said,  "Good  madam,  make  me  blessed  in  your 
care  in  bringing  up  my  child." 
23  1 353] 


TALES    FROM 

And  she  answered,  "I  have  a  child  myself  who  shall  not  be 
more  dear  to  my  respect  than  yours,  my  lord." 

And  Cleon  made  the  like  promise,  saying:  "Your  noble  ser- 
vices, Prince  Pericles,  in  feeding  my  whole  people  with  your  corn 
(for  which  in  their  prayers  they  daily  remember  you)  must  in 
your  child  be  thought  on.  If  I  should  neglect  your  child,  my  whole 
people  that  were  by  you  relieved  would  force  me  to  my  duty; 
but  if  to  that  I  need  a  spur,  the  gods  revenge  it  on  me  and  mine 
to  the  end  of  generation." 

Pericles,  being  thus  assured  that  his  child  would  be  carefully 
attended  to,  left  her  to  the  protection  of  Cleon  and  his  wife 
Dionysia,  and  with  her  he  left  the  nurse,  Lychorida.  When  he 
went  away  the  little  Marina  knew  not  her  loss,  but  Lychorida 
wept  sadly  at  parting  with  her  royal  master. 

"Oh,  no  tears,  Lychorida,"  said  Pericles;  "no  tears;  look  to 
your  little  mistress,  on  whose  grace  you  may  depend  here- 
after." 

Pericles  arrived  in  safety  at  Tyre,  and  was  once  more  settled 
in  the  quiet  possession  of  his  throne,  while  his  woeful  queen, 
whom  he  thought  dead,  remained  at  Ephesus.  Her  little  babe 
Marina,  whom  this  hapless  mother  had  never  seen,  was  brought 
up  by  Cleon  in  a  manner  suitable  to  her  high  birth.  He  gave  her 
the  most  careful  education,  so  that  by  the  time  Marina  attained 
the  age  of  fourteen  years  the  most  deeply  learned  men  were  not 
more  studied  in  the  learning  of  those  times  than  was  Marina. 
She  sang  like  one  immortal,  and  danced  as  goddess-like,  and  with 
her  needle  she  was  so  skilful  that  she  seemed  to  compose  nature's 
own  shapes  in  birds,  fruits,  or  flowers,  the  natural  roses  being 
scarcely  more  like  to  each  other  than  they  were  to  Marina's 
silken  flowers.  But  when  she  had  gained  from  education  all  these 
graces  which  made  her  the  general  wonder,  Dionysia,  the  wife  of 
Cleon,  became  her  mortal  enemy  from  jealousy,  by  reason  that 
her  own  daughter,  from  the  slowness  of  her  mind,  was  not  able  to 
attain  to  that  perfection  wherein  Marina  excelled;  and  finding 
that  all  praise  was  bestowed  on  Marina,  while  her  daughter,  who 

[354] 


SHAKESPEARE 

was  of  the  same  age  and  had  been  educated  with  the  same  care  as 
Marina,  though  not  with  the  same  success,  was  in  comparison 
disregarded,  she  formed  a  project  to  remove  Marina  out  of  the 
way,  vainly  imagining  that  her  untoward  daughter  would  be  more 
respected  when  Marina  was  no  more  seen.  To  encompass  this 
she  employed  a  man  to  murder  Marina,  and  she  well  timed  her 
wicked  design,  when  Lychorida,  the  faithful  nurse,  had  just  died. 
Dionysia  was  discoursing  with  the  man  she  had  commanded  to 
commit  this  murder  when  the  young  Marina  was  weeping  over 
the  dead  Lychorida.  Leonine,  the  man  she  employed  to  do  this 
bad  deed,  though  he  was  a  very  wicked  man,  could  hardly  be 
persuaded  to  undertake  it,  so  had  Marina  won  all  hearts  to  love 
her.    He  said: 

"She  is  a  goodly  creature!" 

"The  fitter  then  the  gods  should  have  her,"  replied  her  merci- 
less enemy.  "Here  she  comes  weeping  for  the  death  of  her  nurse 
Lychorida.    Are  you  resolved  to  obey  me?" 

Leonine,  fearing  to  disobey  her,  replied,  "I  am  resolved." 
And  so,  in  that  one  short  sentence,  was  the  matchless  Marina 
doomed  to  an  untimely  death.  She  now  approached,  with  a 
basket  of  flowers  in  her  hand,  which  she  said  she  would  daily 
strew  over  the  grave  of  good  Lychorida.  The  purple  violet  and 
the  marigold  should  as  a  carpet  hang  upon  her  grave,  while  sum- 
mer days  did  last. 

"Alas  for  me!"  she  said,  "poor  unhappy  maid,  born  in  a  tem- 
pest, when  my  mother  died.  This  world  to  me  is  like  a  lasting 
storm,  hurrying  me  from  my  friends." 

"How  now,  Marina,"  said  the  dissembling  Dionysia,  "do  you 
weep  alone?  How  does  it  chance  my  daughter  is  not  with  you? 
Do  not  sorrow  for  Lychorida;  you  have  a  nurse  in  me.  Your 
beauty  is  quite  changed  with  this  unprofitable  woe.  Come,  give 
me  your  flowers — the  sea  air  will  spoil  them — and  walk  with 
Leonine;  the  air  is  fine,  and  will  enliven  you.  Come,  Leonine, 
take  her  by  the  arm  and  walk  with  her." 

"No,   madam,"  said   Marina,  "I   pray  you  let  me  not  de- 

[3551 


TALES    FROM 

prive  you  of  your  servant";  for  Leonine  was  one  of  Dionysia's 
attendants. 

"Come,  come,"  said  this  artful  woman,  who  wished  for  a  pre- 
tense to  leave  her  alone  with  Leonine,  "I  love  the  prince,  your 
father,  and  I  love  you.  We  every  day  expect  your  father  here; 
and  when  he  comes  and  finds  you  so  changed  by  grief  from  the 
paragon  of  beauty  we  reported  you,  he  will  think  we  have  taken 
no  care  of  you.  Go,  I  pray  you,  walk,  and  be  cheerful  once  again. 
Be  careful  of  that  excellent  complexion  which  stole  the  hearts  of 
old  and  young." 

Marina,  being  thus  importuned,  said,  "Well,  I  will  go,  but  yet 
I  have  no  desire  to  it." 

As  Dionysia  walked  away  she  said  to  Leonine,  "Remember  what 
I  have  said!"  shocking  words,  for  their  meaning  was  that  he  should 
remember  to  kill  Marina. 

Marina  looked  toward  the  sea,  her  birthplace,  and  said,  "Is 
the  wind  westerly  that  blows?" 

"Southwest,"  replied  Leonine. 

"When  I  was  born  the  wind  was  north,"  said  she;  and  then 
the  storm  and  tempest  and  all  her  father's  sorrows,  and  her 
mother's  death,  came  full  into  her  mind,  and  she  said,  "My 
father,  as  Lychorida  told  me,  did  never  fear,  but  cried,  Courage, 
good  seamen,  to  the  sailors,  galling  his  princely  hands  with  the 
ropes,  and,  clasping  to  the  masts,  he  endured  a  sea  that  almos 
split  the  deck." 

"When  was  this?"  said  Leonine. 

"When  I  was  born,"  replied  Marina.  "Never  were  wind  and 
waves  more  violent."  And  then  she  described  the  storm,  the 
action  of  the  sailors,  the  boatswain's  whistle,  and  the  loud  call  of 
the  master,  "which,"  said  she,  "trebled  the  confusion  of  the  ship." 

Lychorida  had  so  often  recounted  to  Marina  the  story  of  her 
hapless  birth  that  these  things  seemed  ever  present  to  her  imagina- 
tion. But  here  Leonine  interrupted  her  with  desiring  her  to  say 
her  prayers.  "What  mean  you  ?"  said  Marina,  who  began  to  fear, 
she  knew  not  why. 

[256] 


ARE   YOU   RESOLVED   TO  OBEY   ME?" 


SHAKESPEARE 

"If  you  require  a  little  space  for  prayer,  I  grant  it,"  said 
Leonine;  "but  be  not  tedious;  the  gods  are  quick  of  ear  and  I 
am  sworn  to  do  my  work  in  haste." 

"Will  you  kill  me?"  said  Marina.    "Alas!  why?" 

"To  satisfy  my  lady,"  replied  Leonine. 

"Why  would  she  have  me  killed?"  said  Marina.  "Now,  as  I 
can  remember,  I  never  hurt  her  in  all  my  life.  I  never  spake  bad 
word  nor  did  any  ill  turn  to  any  living  creature.  Believe  me  now, 
I  never  killed  a  mouse  nor  hurt  a  fly.  I  trod  upon  a  worm  once 
against  my  will,  but  I  wept  for  it.    How  have  I  offended  ?" 

The  murderer  replied,  "My  commission  is  not  to  reason  on 
the  deed,  but  to  do  it."  And  he  was  just  going  to  kill  her  when 
certain  pirates  happened  to  land  at  that  very  moment,  who,  see- 
ing Marina,  bore  her  off  as  a  prize  to  their  ship. 

The  pirate  who  had  made  Marina  his  prize  carried  her  to  Mity- 
lene and  sold  her  for  a  slave,  where,  though  in  that  humble  condi- 
tion, Marina  soon  became  known  throughout  the  whole  city  of 
Mitylene  for  her  beauty  and  her  virtues,  and  the  person  to  whom 
she  was  sold  became  rich  by  the  money  she  earned  for  him.  She 
taught  music,  dancing,  and  fine  needleworks,  and  the  money  she 
got  by  her  scholars  she  gave  to  her  master  and  mistress;  and  the 
fame  of  her  learning  and  her  great  industry  came  to  the  knowledge 
of  Lysimachus,  a  young  nobleman  who  was  governor  of  Mitylene, 
and  Lysimachus  went  himself  to  the  house  where  Marina  dwelt, 
to  see  this  paragon  of  excellence  whom  all  the  city  praised  so 
highly.  Her  conversation  delighted  Lysimachus  beyond  measure, 
for,  though  he  had  heard  much  of  this  admired  maiden,  he  did  not 
expect  to  find  her  so  sensible  a  lady,  so  virtuous,  and  so  good,  as 
he  perceived  Marina  to  be;  and  he  left  her,  saying  he  hoped  she 
would  persevere  in  her  industrious  and  virtuous  course,  and  that 
if  ever  she  heard  from  him  again  it  should  be  for  her  good.  Ly- 
simachus thought  Marina  such  a  miracle  for  sense,  fine  breeding, 
and  excellent  qualities,  as  well  as  for  beauty  and  all  outward 
graces,  that  he  wished  to  marry  her,  and,  notwithstanding  her 
humble  situation,  he  hoped  to  find  that  her  birth  was  noble;  but 

1 3591 


TALE  S    FR  O  M 

ever  when  they  asked  her  parentage   she  would   sit  still  and 
weep. 

Meantime,  at  Tarsus,  Leonine,  fearing  the  anger  of  Dionysia, 
told  her  he  had  killed  Marina;  and  that  wicked  woman  gave  out 
that  she  was  dead,  and  made  a  pretended  funeral  for  her,  and 
erected  a  stately  monument;  and  shortly  after  Pericles,  accom- 
panied by  his  loyal  minister  Helicanus,  made  a  voyage  from  Tyre 
to  Tarsus,  on  purpose  to  see  his  daughter,  intending  to  take  her 
home  with  him.  And  he  never  having  beheld  her  since  he  left 
her  an  infant  in  the  care  of  Cleon  and  his  wife,  how  did  this  good 
prince  rejoice  at  the  thought  of  seeing  this  dear  child  of  his  buried 
queen!  But  when  they  told  him  Marina  was  dead,  and  showed 
the  monument  they  had  erected  for  her,  great  was  the  misery 
this  most  wretched  father  endured,  and,  not  being  able  to  bear 
the  sight  of  that  country  where  his  last  hope  and  only  memory  of 
his  dear  Thaisa  was  entombed,  he  took  ship  and  hastily  departed 
from  Tarsus.  From  the  day  he  entered  the  ship  a  dull  and  heavy 
melancholy  seized  him.  He  never  spoke,  and  seemed  totally  in- 
sensible to  everything  around  him.< 

Sailing  from  Tarsus  to  Tyre,  the  ship  in  its  course  passed  by 
Mitylene,  where  Marina  dwelt;  the  governor  of  which  place, 
Lysimachus,  observing  this  royal  vessel  from  the  shore,  and  de- 
sirous of  knowing  who  was  on  board,  went  in  a  barge  to  the  side 
of  the  ship,  to  satisfy  his  curiosity.  Helicanus  received  him  very 
courteously  and  told  him  that  the  ship  came  from  Tyre,  and  that 
they  were  conducting  thither  Pericles,  their  prince.  "A  man, 
sir,"  said  Helicanus,  "who  has  not  spoken  to  any  one  these  three 
months,  nor  taken  any  sustenance,  but  just  to  prolong  his  grief; 
it  would  be  tedious  to  repeat  the  whole  ground  of  his  distemper, 
but  the  main  springs  from  the  loss  of  a  beloved  daughter  and  a 
wife." 

Lysimachus  begged  to  see  this  afflicted  prince,  and  when  he 
beheld  Pericles  he  saw  he  had  been  once  a  goodly  person,  and  he 
said  to  him:  "Sir  king,  all  hail!  The  gods* preserve  you!  Hail, 
royal  sir!" 

[360] 


SHAKESPEARE 

But  in  vain  Lysimachus  spoke  to  him.  Pericles  made  no 
answer,  nor  did  he  appear  to  perceive  any  stranger  approached. 
And  then  Lysimachus  bethought  him  of  the  peerless  maid  Marina, 
that  haply  with  her  sweet  tongue  she  might  win  some  answer  from 
the  silent  prince;  and  with  the  consent  of  Helicanus  he  sent  for 
Marina,  and  when  she  entered  the  ship  in  which  her  own  father 
sat  motionless  with  grief,  they  welcomed  her  on  board  as  if  they 
had  known  she  was  their  princess;  and  they  cried: 

"She  is  a  gallant  lady." 

Lysimachus  was  well  pleased  to  hear  their  commendations,  and 
he  said : 

"She  is  such  a  one  that,  were  I  well  assured  she  came  of  noble 
birth,  I  would  wish  no  better  choice  and  think  me  rarely  blessed 
in  a  wife."  And  then  he  addressed  her  in  courtly  terms,  as  if 
the  lowly  seeming  maid  had  been  the  high-born  lady  he  wished  to 
find  her,  calling  her  Fair  and  beautiful  Marina,  telling  her  a  great 
prince  on  board  that  ship  had  fallen  into  a  sad  and  mournful 
silence;  and,  as  if  Marina  had  the  power  of  conferring  health 
and  felicity,  he  begged  she  would  undertake  to  cure  the  royal 
stranger  of  his  melancholy. 

"Sir,"  said  Marina,  "I  will  use  my  utmost  skill  in  his  recovery, 
provided  none  but  I  and  my  maid  be  suffered  to  come  near  him." 

She,  who  at  Mitylene  had  so  carefully  concealed  her  birth, 
ashamed  to  tell  that  one  of  royal  ancestry  was  now  a  slave,  first 
began  to  speak  to  Pericles  of  the  wayward  changes  in  her  own 
fate,  telling  him  from  what  a  high  estate  herself  had  fallen.  As 
if  she  had  known  it  was  her  royal  father  she  stood  before,  all  the 
words  she  spoke  were  of  her  own  sorrows;  but  her  reason  for  so 
doing  was  that  she  knew  nothing  more  wins  the  attention  of  the 
unfortunate  than  the  recital  of  some  sad  calamity  to  match  their 
own.  The  sound  of  her  sweet  voice  aroused  the  drooping  prince; 
he  lifted  up  his  eyes,  which  had  been  so  long  fixed  and  motionless; 
and  Marina,  who  was  the  perfect  image  of  her  mother,  presented 
to  his  amazed  sight  the  features  of  his  dead  queen.  The  long  silent 
prince  was  once  more  heard  to  speak. 

h6i] 


TALES    FROM 

"My  dearest  wife,"  said  the  awakened  Pericles,  "was  like  this 
maid,  and  such  a  one  might  my  daughter  have  been.  My  queen's 
square  brows,  her  stature  to  an  inch,  as  wand-like  straight,  as 
silver-voiced,  her  eyes  as  jewel-like.  Where  do  you  live,  young 
maid?  Report  your  parentage.  I  think  you  said  you  had  been 
tossed  from  wrong  to  injury,  and  that  you  thought  your  griefs 
would  equal  mine,  if  both  were  opened." 

"Some  such  thing  I  said,"  replied  Marina,  "and  said  no  more 
than  what  my  thoughts  did  warrant  me  as  likely." 

"Tell  me  your  story,"  answered  Pericles.  "If  I  find  you  have 
known  the  thousandth  part  of  my  endurance  you  have  borne 
your  sorrows  like  a  man  and  I  have  suffered  like  a  girl;  yet  you 
do  look  like  Patience  gazing  on  kings'  graves  and  smiling  extremity 
out  of  act.  How  lost  you  your  name,  my  most  kind  virgin? 
Recount  your  story,  I  beseech  you.    Come,  sit  by  me." 

How  was  Pericles  surprised  when  she  said  her  name  was 
Marina,  for  he  knew  it  was  no  usual  name,  but  had  been  invented 
by  himself  for  his  own  child  to  signify  sea-born. 

"Oh,  I  am  mocked,"  said  he,  "and  you  are  sent  hither  by  some 
incensed  god  to  make  the  world  laugh  at  me." 

"Patience,  good  sir,"  said  Marina,  "or  I  must  cease  here." 

"Nay,"  said  Pericles,  "I  will  be  patient.  You  little  know  how 
you  do  startle  me,  to  call  yourself  Marina." 

"The  name,"  she  replied,  "was  given  me  by  one  that  had  some 
power,  my  father  and  a  king." 

"How,  a  king's  daughter!"  said  Pericles,  "and  called  Marina! 
But  are  you  flesh  and  blood?  Are  you  no  fairy?  Speak  on. 
Where  were  you  born,  and  wherefore  called  Marina?" 

She  replied:   "I  was  called  Marina  because  I  was  born  at  sea. 

My  mother  was  the  daughter  of  a  king;   she  died  the  minute  I 

was  born,  as  my  good  nurse  Lychorida  has  often  told  me,  weeping. 

The  king,  my  father,  left  me  at  Tarsus  till  the  cruel  wife  of  Cleon 

sought  to  murder  me.    A  crew  of  pirates  came  and  rescued  me 

and  brought  me  here  to  Mitylene.     But,  good  sir,  why  do  you 

weep?     It  may  be  you  think  me  an  impostor.     But  indeed, 

[362] 


SHAKESPEARE 

sir,  I  am  the  daughter  to  King  Pericles,  if  goocTKing  Pericles  be 
living." 

Then  Pericles,  terrified  as  he  seemed  at  his  own  sudden  joy,  and 
doubtful  if  this  could  be  real,  loudly  called  for  his  attendants,  who 


rejoiced  at  the  sound  of  their  beloved  king's  voice;  and  he  said 
to  Helicanus: 

"O  Helicanus,  strike  me,  give  me  a  gash,  put  me  to  present 
pain,  lest  this  great  sea  of  joys  rushing  upon  me  overbear  the 
shores  of  my  mortality.  Oh,  come  hither,  thou  that  wast  born  at 
sea,  buried  at  Tarsus,  and  found  at  sea  again.  O  Helicanus,  down 
on  your  knees,  thank  the  holy  gods!  This  is  Marina.  Now 
blessings  on  thee,  my  child!  Give  me  fresh  garments,  mine  own 
Helicanus!  She  is  not  dead  at  Tarsus  as  she  should  have  been  by 
the  savage  Dionysia.    She  shall  tell  you  all,  when  you  shall  kneel 

[363] 


TALES    FROM 

to  her  and  call  her  your  very  princess.  Who  is  this?"  (observing 
Lysimachus  for  the  first  time). 

"Sir,"  said  Helicanus,  "it  is  the  governor  of  Mitylene,  who, 
hearing  of  your  melancholy,  came  to  see  you." 

"I  embrace  you,  sir,"  said  Pericles.  "Give  me  my  robes!  I 
am  well  with  beholding.  O  Heaven  bless  my  girl!  But  hark, 
what  music  is  that?" — for  now,  either  sent  by  some  kind  god  or 
by  his  own  delighted  fancy  deceived,  he  seemed  to  hear  soft  music. 

"My  lord,  I  hear  none,"  replied  Helicanus. 

"None?"  said  Pericles.    "Why,  it  is  the  music  of  the  spheres." 

As  there  was  no  music  to  be  heard,  Lysimachus  concluded  that 
the  sudden  joy  had  unsettled  the  prince's  understanding,  and  he 
said,  "It  is  not  good  to  cross  him;  let  him  have  his  way."  And 
then  they  told  him  they  heard  the  music;  and  he  now  complain- 
ing of  a  drowsy  slumber  coming  over  him,  Lysimachus  persuaded 
him  to  rest  on  a  couch,  and,  placing  a  pillow  under  his  head,  he, 
quite  overpowered  with  excess  of  joy,  sank  into  a  sound  sleep, 
and  Marina  watched  in  silence  by  the  couch  of  her  sleeping  parent. 

While  he  slept,  Pericles  dreamed  a  dream  which  made  him 
resolve  to  go  to  Ephesus.  His  dream  was  that  Diana,  the  goddess 
of  the  Ephesians,  appeared  to  him  and  commanded  him  to  go  to 
her  temple  at  Ephesus,  and  there  before  her  altar  to  declare  the 
story  of  his  life  and  misfortunes;  and  by  her  silver  bow  she  swore 
that  if  he  performed  her  injunction  he  should  meet  with  some  rare 
felicity.  When  he  awoke,  being  miraculously  refreshed,  he  told 
his  dream,  and  that  his  resolution  was  to  obey  the  bidding  of  the 
goddess. 

Then  Lysimachus  invited  Pericles  to  come  on  shore  and  refresh 
himself  with  such  entertainment  as  he  should  find  at  Mitylene, 
which  courteous  offer  Pericles  accepting,  agreed  to  tarry  with  him 
for  the  space  of  a  day  or  two.  During  which  time  we  may  well 
suppose  what  feastings,  what  rejoicings,  what  costly  shows  andenter- 
tainments  the  governor  made  in  Mitylene  to  greet  the  royal  father 
of  his  dear  Marina,  whom  in  her  obscure  fortunes  he  had  so  re- 
spected.   Nor  did  Pericles  frown  upon  Lysimachus's  suit,  when 

[364] 


SHAKESPEARE 

he  understood  how  he  had  honored  his  child  in  the  days  of  her 
low  estate,  and  that  Marina  showed  herself  not  averse  to  his  pro- 
posals; only  he  made  it  a  condition,  before  he  gave  his  consent, 
that  they  should  visit  with  him  the  shrine  of  the  Ephesian  Diana; 
to  whose  temple  they  shortly  after  all  three  undertook  a  voyage; 
and,  the  goddess  herself  filling  their  sails  with  prosperous  winds, 
after  a  few  weeks  they  arrived  in  safety  at  Ephesus. 

There  was  standing  near  the  altar  of  the  goddess,  when  Pericles 
with  his  train  entered  the  temple,  the  good  Cerimon  (now  grown 
very  aged),  who  had  restored  Thaisa,  the  wife  of  Pericles,  to  life; 
and  Thaisa,  now  a  priestess  of  the  temple,  was  standing  before 
the  altar;  and  though  the  many  years  he  had  passed  in  sorrow 
for  her  loss  had  much  altered  Pericles,  Thaisa  thought  she  knew 
her  husband's  features,  and  when  he  approached  the  altar  and 
began  to  speak,  she  remembered  his  voice,  and  listened  to  his 
words  with  wonder  and  a  joyful  amazement.  And  these  were  the 
words  that  Pericles  spoke  before  the  altar: 

"Hail,  Diana!  to  perform  thy  just  commands  I  here  confess 
myself  the  Prince  of  Tyre,  who,  frighted  from  my  country,  at 
Pentapolis  wedded  the  fair  Thaisa.  She  died  at  sea  in  childbed, 
but  brought  forth  a  maid-child  called  Marina.  She  at  Tarsus 
was  nursed  with  Dionysia,  who  at  fourteen  years  thought  to  kill 
her,  but  her  better  stars  brought  her  to  Mitylene,  by  whose  shores 
as  I  sailed  her  good  fortunes  brought  this  maid  on  board,  where 
by  her  most  clear  remembrance  she  made  herself  known  to  be  my 
daughter." 

Thaisa,  unable  to  bear  the  transports  which  his  words  had 
raised  in  her,  cried  out,  "You  are,  you  are,  O  royal  Pericles" — 
and  fainted. 

"What  means  this  woman?"  said  Pericles.  "She  dies!  Gen- 
tlemen, help." 

"Sir,"  said  Cerimon,  "if  you  have  told  Diana's  altar  true,  this 
is  your  wife." 

"Reverend  gentleman,  no,"  said  Pericles.  "I  threw  her  over- 
board with  these  very  arms." 

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TALES    FROM 

Cerimon  then  recounted  how,  early  one  tempestuous  morning, 
this  lady  was  thrown  upon  the  Ephesian  shore;  how,  opening  the 
coffin,  he  found  therein  rich  jewels  and  a  paper;  how,  happily, 
he  recovered  her  and  placed  her  here  in  Diana's  temple. 

And  now  Thaisa,  being  restored  from  her  swoon,  said:  "O 
my  lord,  are  you  not  Pericles  ?  Like  him  you  speak,  like  him  you 
are.    Did  you  not  name  a  tempest,  a  birth,  and  death?" 

He,  astonished,  said,  "The  voice  of  dead  Thaisa!" 

"That  Thaisa  am  I,"  she  replied,  "supposed  dead  and 
drowned." 

"O  true  Diana!"  exclaimed  Pericles,  in  a  passion  of  devout 
astonishment. 

"And  now,"  said  Thaisa,  "I  know  you  better.  Such  a  ring 
as  I  see  on  your  finger  did  the  king  my  father  give  you  when  we 
with  tears  parted  from  him  at  Pentapolis." 

"Enough,  you  gods!"  cried  Pericles.  "Your  present  kindness 
makes  my  past  miseries  sport.  Oh,  come,  Thaisa,  be  buried  a 
second  time  within  these  arms." 

And  Marina  said,  "My  heart  leaps  to  be  gone  into  my  mother's 
bosom." 

Then  did  Pericles  show  his  daughter  to  her  mother,  saying, 
"Look  who  kneels  here,  flesh  of  thy  flesh,  thy  burthen  at  sea,  and 
called  Marina  because  she  was  yielded  there." 

"Blessed  and  my  own!"  said  Thaisa.  And  while  she  hung  in 
rapturous  joy  over  her  child  Pericles  knelt  before  the  altar,  saying: 

"Pure  Diana,  bless  thee  for  thy  vision.  For  this  I  will  offer 
oblations  nightly  to  thee." 

And  then  and  there  did  Pericles,  with  the  consent  of  Thaisa, 
solemnly  affiance  their  daughter,  the  virtuous  Marina,  to  the  well- 
deserving  Lysimachus  in  marriage. 

Thus  have  we  seen  in  Pericles,  his  queen,  and  daughter,  a 
famous  example  of  virtue  assailed  by  calamity  (through  the  suf- 
ferance of  Heaven,  to  teach  patience  and  constancy  to  men), 
under  the  same  guidance  becoming  finally  successful  and  triumph- 
ing over  chance  and  change.    In  Helicanus  we  have  beheld  a  nota- 

[366] 


SHAKESPEARE 

ble  pattern  of  truth,  of  faith,  and  loyalty,  who,  when  he  might 
have  succeeded  to  a  throne,  chose  rather  to  recall  the  rightful 
owner  to  his  possession  than  to  become  great  by  another's  wrong. 
In  the  worthy  Cerimon,  who  restored  Thaisa  to  life,  we  are  in- 
structed how  goodness,  directed  by  knowledge,  in  bestowing  bene- 
fits upon  mankind  approaches  to  the  nature  of  the  gods.  It  only 
remains  to  be  told  that  Dionysia,  the  wicked  wife  of  Cleon,  met 
with  an  end  proportionable  to  her  deserts.  The  inhabitants  of 
Tarsus,  when  her  cruel  attempt  upon  Marina  was  known,  rising 
in  a  body  to  revenge  the  daughter  of  their  benefactor,  and  setting 
fire  to  the  palace  of  Cleon,  burned  both  him  and  her  and  their 
whole  household,  the  gods  seeming  well  pleased  that  so  foul  a 
murder,  though  but  intentional  and  never  carried  into  act,  should 
be  punished  in  a  way  befitting  its  enormity. 


THE    END 


